


If I Could Turn Back Time

by WhoStarLocked



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidents, Anger, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Arguing, Assassination, Assassination Attempt(s), Baby Noctis Lucis Caelum, Beating, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Clarus Amicitia Is a Good Bro, Cold, Cold Weather, Cor Leonis Needs a Hug, Cor Leonis Whump, Daemons, Death, Death Threats, Electricity, Electrocution, Emotional, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Family Loss, Fear, Fire, Flowers, Gen, Good Parent Regis Lucis Caelum, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hatred, Heartache, Heartbreak, Heartbreaking, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Cor Leonis, Hurt Regis Lucis Caelum, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infiltration, Injury, Investigations, King Regis Lucis Caelum, Language of Flowers, Loss, Loss of Parent(s), Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Misery, Mission Reports, Missions, Missions Gone Wrong, Near Death Experiences, News Media, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Parent Death, Parent Regis Lucis Caelum, Parent-Child Relationship, Poor Regis Lucis Caelum, Post-Loss, Prison, Prisoner of War, Protective Regis Lucis Caelum, Rage, Regis Lucis Caelum Needs A Hug, Regret, Sad Cor Leonis, Self-Blaming Cor Leonis, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, Shock, Sneaking, Sneaking Around, Sorrow, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Clarus Amicitia, Survival, Survivor Guilt, Tears, Threats, Threats of Violence, Torture, Unconsciousness, Unreliable Narrator, Upset Cor Leonis, Upset Regis Lucis Caelum, Violence, Wakes & Funerals, Whump, Young Gladiolus Amicitia, Young Regis Lucis Caelum, loss of a loved one, sepsis, smoke, smoke inhalation, suicide bombing, upset
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoStarLocked/pseuds/WhoStarLocked
Summary: It all happens so quickly.One minute, Cor is standing at the back wall of the room watching over the queen while she mingles with the event organisers and makes small-talk about their charity, and the next, he’s kneeling next to her prone form, his blood-covered hands shaking as he leans forwards to check for a pulse.
Relationships: Aulea Lucis Caelum/Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis, Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Regis Lucis Caelum, Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 33
Kudos: 61





	1. I Didn't Really Mean To Hurt You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falseneun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseneun/gifts).



> Hello everyone! This fic is for Falseneun, who gave me amazing art, so in exchange, they got this! I hope you like it! (Request: Angsty Cor whump/injury, with Regis.)
> 
> The title of the fic and all the chapter titles are taken from the song If I Could Turn Back Time written by Diane Warren, recorded by Cher. 
> 
> TW for: Fire/Smoke/Smoke Inhalation/Explosion/Suicide Bombing -- Please read the tags as well! 
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!

It all happens so quickly. 

One minute, Cor is standing at the back wall of the room watching over the queen while she mingles with the event organisers and makes small-talk about their charity, and the next, he’s kneeling next to her prone form, his blood-covered hands shaking as he leans forwards to check for a pulse. 

He’s almost sick when he can’t find one. 

A horrible ringing echoes through his head, blocking out the cacophony of horrified screams, the heart-wrenching cries of children, the angry yells and shouted orders as he looks down at the queen. 

She’s too still. There’s too much blood trailing sluggishly from the gaping wound in her side and she’s too still. Even so, Cor ever so carefully rolls her eyelids open only to be met with a glassy, cold stare from usually warm, deep blue eyes. He swallows unevenly, and shuts Aulea’s eyes for the final time.

The whole room is in disarray after the explosion that had gone off, and it’s this chaos that spurs Cor to his feet. He looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of his other charges in the sea of terrified people as they search desperately for an escape from the fire that’s spreading quickly through the room.

Aulea wasn’t the only royal at this event. 

With his panic increasing ten-fold, Cor puts a hand to the comm in his ear and taps on it. There’s blood crusted on his finger, making it feel tacky. 

“ _\-- find her Cla------ don’t fucking care-------ook after Noc-------off me!_ ” 

The radio crackles and spits something awful - damaged in the blast - but Cor can just about make out Regis’ shouted orders to Clarus over the rest of the din, which includes - much to his relief - Noctis’ wails. 

“Clar-” He tries to hail his friend, but cuts himself off, overcome with a fit of choking. Thick, black smoke obscures his vision suddenly, blocking the daylight and his airways.

“ _Marshal?_ ”

He still can’t breathe properly enough to answer, bent double in the burning room as he hacks his lungs out. 

“ _Damn it, Regis sh----_ _up!_ ” Clarus roars in his ear. “ _Cor? Cor, do y--- ---ead me?!_ ” 

Forcing a deep breath into his uncooperative lungs, Cor straightens and taps the comm again. He’s only one wrong breath away from another coughing fit, his lungs itchy as he rasps out a reply.

“I copy. Are the king and prince safe?”

“ _\---es. They were out---- -- th me. What th-- ----pened in there Cor?_ ” Clarus asks harshly, worry underlying every word. 

“Explosion.” Cor answers, his throat burning. “Suicide bomber. I don’t think they had any accomplices here.” 

“ _Fu---_ ” 

The rest of Clarus’ response is lost to static. Cor loses himself in another coughing fit, so violent that his eyes sting and begin to tear up. He bends over, wrapping an arm around his torso like it will make the pain go away, and his gaze is snagged once more by the fallen queen. 

“Clarus,” He wheezes, letting gravity take him back to his knees. At the very least, the air is clearer of smoke down here. “Clarus, Aulea-”

He has to cut himself off yet again to try and clear his throat. His eyes, throat, and nose all burn with the effort to breathe, and he’s still coughing and spluttering so much it hurts to talk, but he forces the words out as he staggers back to his feet, stumbling blindly away from the flames that are now threatening to encompass him. 

“ _Whe---- --------s she ---or?!_ ” That’s Regis’ voice, all but screaming at him, but he can’t bring himself to answer. His vision is overtaken by tears and smoke and bright red flames, already taller than him as they consume everything in their path. 

Right now, that very much includes him. 

He’s lost all sense of direction in the mayhem, he has no clue where _any_ exit is, let alone the nearest one, but there’s only one direction around him that isn’t already ablaze in the inferno, so he stumbles towards it, and when his foot catches something and he trips, he crawls towards his only hope of salvation, trying to ignore the building guilt in his gut as he abandons Aulea to the flames, as he drags himself over body after body of other victims that lie strewn in his path. 

“ _Cor?!_ ” 

He reaches the edge of the room, and drags himself to his feet, using the wall to steady him. The air is clearer here, and as he looks round he soon realises why - just on the other side of the flames is a door. He can just make out the daylight, and shadowy figures running for the salvation it provides. With all his remaining energy, Cor throws himself through the flames, landing in a rough roll on the other side. He lies on the ground a moment, stunned and breathless, then gets his feet back under him before he gets crushed in the stampede of fleeing people. 

“ _COR?!_ ” 

“Regis,” He pants, giving another slight cough. He’s close to being outside now, where he can figure out what the hell to do next. But first, the worst thing he’s ever had to do in his life. 

“Regis, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t get to her. She-” Another cough wracks his frame. “She’s dead.” 

* * *

Two weeks pass. 

Two agonising weeks of waiting for investigation teams to confirm that it had been a suicide bomber that had caused the explosion. Two heart-breaking weeks of people’s pleas for family members that might have been in the fire to come home. Two horrific weeks of bodies being recovered, identified, names of victims released to the public. Two guilt-ridden weeks of waiting for _her_ body to be retrieved. When it is, it’s too burnt and blackened to even confirm it’s her. They have to use dental records. Two soul-destroying weeks of the council running the kingdom without its king. Of Regis taking his infant son and sequestering them both deep within the Citadel, only Clarus allowed to disturb them, and even then only to bring them food and make sure Regis sleeps. 

And then, it’s the day of her funeral, and even Cor cannot keep his tears at bay. 

He stands solemnly next to Clarus’ family in the front row of mourners as her coffin is brought in. Tradition had required a short procession through the city, and throngs of people had come out to mourn their queen. Her coffin has a stunning wreath of sylleblossoms (bought especially from Tenebrae), snowdrops and blue calla lilies - her favourite flowers - that Regis had made up with flowers from the gardens of Amicitia manor. 

But the citizens who did not know her closely only knew that she liked blue. Blue, to match her eyes, and as the coffin is walked carefully into the temple of Bahamut while a string quintet plays hymns, Cor can see that she is now adrift in a sea of gorgeous blue flowers. He can see brunnera, and periwinkles, desert bluebells, glory-of-the-snows, blue orchids, and blue daisies. There’s many more, all lovingly placed around the main arrangement. 

Cor keeps his tears silent throughout the ceremony. He offers a watery smile to young Gladio, who’s standing to his right, his mother on his other side. The three-year-old is frowning up at them, glancing between his parents and Cor and the coffin. He’s too young to understand why they’re here, but at least he keeps quiet. Clarus’ wife has one hand holding Gladio’s, the other placed comfortingly on Clarus’ forearm. On Clarus’ other side, Regis stands, clutching the six month old prince to his chest tightly, and crying into his back. Clarus has a hand placed on his shoulder, but Regis doesn’t seem to want the comfort. His hitching breaths echo through the temple, announcing his grief to those gathered there. 

A fresh wave of guilt crashes over Cor at the sight of the prince, fast asleep in his father’s arms, oblivious to his mother’s death, oblivious to his father’s pain, oblivious to just how much Cor has failed him already in his young life. Across the aisle, on the other front row pew, Queen Sylva stands, head bowed in respect as the priest drones on. 

When they head outside, Cor is completely stunned by the amount of flowers laid out that there obviously wasn’t room for on her coffin. He can’t see the steps up to the temple at all, and it’s the same along both sidewalks all the way back to the Citadel, he notes as he drives back. There is a wake being held for family and close friends only. The general public don’t have access to the Citadel stairs, but again there are piles of bouquets and memorial cards just by the gates, stacked so high they’re halfway to Cor’s knees. 

It’s no secret that Queen Aulea was loved, but even so, this is unprecedented. 

After the initial shock of the responsiveness of the citizens subsides, however, Cor feels the guilt begin to creep back in. He could have prevented this - _should_ have, as well. It’s his job! Security at that event had been his responsibility, and somehow he’d let a suicide bomber slip in right under his nose. Let them get mere metres away from Aulea, let them _kill_ her and twenty-seven other innocents. 

He can’t bear to look Regis or Clarus - or anyone, really - in the eye when he gets to the wake, and as soon as Regis decides to skip out to put Noctis to bed, Cor is hot on his heels out of the door. 

As he leaves the Citadel, the sight of the flowers only makes him cringe. Guilt coils in his chest, and it spreads like ice in his veins when he passes a newspaper stand.

_A NATION IN MOURNING_ _  
__Hundreds gather outside the Temple of Bahamut to mourn the passing of Queen Aulea_

The headline blares. Right underneath is a picture of her coffin being taken up the temple steps, deliberately taken from a distance so the carpet of flowers is prominent. Further down the page are more pictures - the city gates are surrounded by even more flowers than the Citadel, and the bridge connecting Insomnia to the rest of Lucis is completely lost. It’s totally overwhelming, how much love everyone had for her. 

_Millions of viewers tuned in to see the procession through Insomnia and into the Temple of Bahamut, where Queen Aulea was laid to rest. Several VIPs were said to be in attendance, including Queen Sylva of Tenebrae…_

Cor’s eyes blur before he can read the rest of the article. He gasps quietly, shoulders beginning to shake as fresh tears fall. 

He should have stopped this. 

It’s his fault. 

It’s all his fault.

* * *

Clarus groans as he reaches his office and spies the headline on the newspaper waiting on his desk. 

_THE KINGDOM DESERVES ANSWERS_

What a pile of chocobo _shit!_

It was a suicide bomber whose presence no one could have predicted! What more do they want?!

Aulea’s death still weighs heavily on everyone’s minds, and the media is baying for blood. They want someone to blame, and they’re hell bent on making that someone Cor. He’s not about to stand by while they smear the name of his honorary little brother, but it’s a delicate balancing act, because in his grief, Regis is gunning for someone to blame as well. Clarus can see the loss eating away at his friend, and there’s not a soul in the Citadel who hasn’t found themselves on the wrong end of Regis’ newfound bitterness over her death.

Cor isn’t at fault, Clarus knows that. He didn’t mind Aulea at all, but they were never particularly close, which means now, two months after her death, Clarus has grieved enough to have gained some clarity. He’s reflected on what happened from every angle and drawn the same conclusion every time - it was a horrific attack, but it couldn’t have been foreseen, and Cor did nothing wrong. 

But right now, the media is willing to overlook certain facts and considerations to give the people a scapegoat.

It’s stupid, because Clarus just knows that if Cor had stepped up security at the event any more, then the headlines would be trying to slam them all for imposing a ‘police state’. There is no easy way to de-escalate the brewing tension now. There will be a shitstorm, and the most they can hope to do is weather it. Even though Regis is still too upset to see that her death wasn’t preventable at the moment, Clarus isn’t about to leave Cor to fend for himself. 

They can blame Cor over his dead body. 

But in the last week, it’s gotten a hell of a lot harder to protect him. Some moron on the council has leaked parts of Cor’s account of events of the attack, and of course, any reporter with more than one brain cell is completely overlooking the part where Cor determined that Aulea was already dead when he reached her, and jumped straight to the part where he admitted to leaving her body behind. 

As if Cor would have left anyone behind if there was even a chance they were still alive. 

Clarus has to reign in his anger as he picks up the paper and throws it (with extreme prejudice) in the bin. He draws a heavy sigh through his nose, tidying stray bits of paper on his desk. He has to remember that they don’t know Cor like he does. They don’t know Cor as anything other than elusive and stern, and when Regis had appointed him as the Marshal a little over a year ago, a lot of them had decided that Cor is too young for the job. Now, they think they have evidence of that. There’s already a petition calling for his removal. Clarus is already furious thinking about the ridiculous debate he’ll have to have with the council to protect Cor. He can’t even rely on Regis to back him up, since Regis is too wrapped up in grief and caring for Noctis to give the situation the consideration it needs. He isn’t thinking straight about anything at the moment. He’s even released a statement to the press that he will not rest until everyone who could have prevented Aulea’s death has been brought to justice, which has not helped Cor’s case at all. No, this is a battle Clarus has to be prepared to fight alone. 

Not even Cor can help him, because he is blaming himself, along with the reporters and a great majority of the kingdom. The best thing Clarus can do here is try and give Cor the space and time to realise that it’s not his fault, give Regis the time to reach the same conclusion he has, and in the meantime, field the horrible accusations flying around by himself. 

Clarus drops into his chair heavily, and unlocks his top desk drawer. Inside lie the highly sensitive, top secret files containing all their gathered intelligence on Niflheim’s movements. He’s sorry to say there’s not much useful information here, but they’ve uncovered information pointing to the Niffs trying to establish a new base just on the border to Tenebrae. That’s something they need to nip in the bud. In ideal circumstances, Clarus wouldn’t ask Cor right now, but he’s hoping that giving Cor something else to focus on besides the increasingly vile headlines might help him a little. At the very least, sending him to another continent will give Cor a breather from the scrutiny of the public. 

He’s drawn from his musings by a quick knock on his office door. He looks up just as Cor steps inside, closing the door gently behind him. 

“You wanted to see me?” Cor asks, not betraying any emotion he might be feeling at all. Clarus smiles and gestures for Cor to sit. He cuts an intimidating figure in his uniform, and he gives off an aura of sternness - his face looks like it could be carved from stone. It’s mostly a practiced façade, and Clarus sees straight through it. After all, he’s watched Cor perfect this image over the years, and he knows Cor better. He can see nervousness in the slight downturn of Cor’s lips, and the tightness of his eyes. He can see the tension in his frame, and the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly. 

Yeah, Cor isn’t dealing very well at all. 

“How are you?” Clarus asks, drawing one file from his draw before shutting it. Cor’s eyes follow his movements keenly as he places the file on the desk between them. 

“Where do you need me to go?” He grunts, looking up from the folder to Clarus’ face. 

“I don’t need you to go anywhere if you don’t feel up to it.” Clarus replies tentatively, trying to gauge Cor’s reaction. Even after being friends with him for so long, Cor isn’t giving much away at the moment, and Clarus can’t really tell what he’s making of this offer. 

Cor glances down at the file again. “Then why am I here instead of whoever you’re actually going to send?” 

Clarus can’t help but wince at the resigned frustration underlying Cor’s words. 

“Because I am happy to send you if you think you’re able to go.” Clarus answers. It takes all his willpower to keep his voice even. “I’d rather you go, I trust you more than anyone else, but I’m giving you the option to say no if you need more time.” 

Cor stares at the file silently for a few minutes. 

“You want me out the way.” He eventually concludes. 

Well, not in _that_ way. Clarus turns his next words over in his head carefully before answering. 

“I thought you might want something to focus on doing.” Clarus starts, watching Cor closely, not that he’ll notice anything. Cor’s got his best poker face on right now, and it’s unbreakable. “And I thought you might want to get away from the media for a while.” 

Cor meets his gaze, and there’s a flash of hesitancy that’s uncharacteristic for him. “You think I should go. You think I should hide from them.” 

It sounds like a question, even though Clarus knows it’s not meant to be one. 

“Cor, being in the spotlight is horrible, and it’s not something you were ever prepared for like Regis and I were. From my experience, this is going to get a lot worse before they give up trying to pin this mess on you, and they will start harassing you. I don’t want you to feel pressured into resigning or something because a reporter makes a comment you take to heart. I don’t want to lose you to these assholes because they jumped to a conclusion without considering all the facts.” 

Clarus’ worry increases as he watches Cor’s teeth sink into his lower lip. 

“I don’t blame you at all.” He presses on, leaning forward a little to catch Cor’s eye. “There is nothing that I would have done differently, and eventually, they will realise that that is the case, but until they do, you will be under constant fire. They will hound you day and night. But they can’t get to you if you’re not here.” 

“So you think I should hide.” Cor responds bluntly. 

Clarus rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. “You call it hiding, I call it taking cover. Whatever you want to call it, Cor, yes, I think you should do it.” 

Another silence stretches between them as Cor mulls over his words. Clarus waits patiently for him to order his thoughts. It’s not a decision Cor should take lightly, and Clarus doesn’t want him to go just on his say-so. 

“There were three reporters at my doorstep this morning. They followed me all the way to the gates.” Cor admits quietly.

Clarus’ hands clench into fists of their own accord. Fucking reporters. “You know what I’m saying makes sense, Cor, but please, _please_ be honest with me. If you don’t think you’re in the right headspace to go on a mission safely, then that’s fine. You don’t _have_ to go. I just thought you might want to.” 

Clarus stares imploringly at his little brother, and Cor’s mouth twists unhappily for a moment, his stare getting distant. It doesn’t take long for him to reach some kind of decision. Cor nods to himself, a small furrow in his brow easing slightly as he resettles his gaze on Clarus.

“I’ll go. You’re right. I need something else to focus on now.” Cor says with a grim determination. 

Clarus offers the smallest of smiles, just barely lifting the corner of his mouth up as he slides the file across the desk to Cor and begins to brief him. 

* * *

It doesn’t take Cor long to prepare for his mission, since there’s not really a lot of things he can do beforehand. He’ll have to do most of the planning once he’s on the ground in Niflheim, which means all he really has to worry about now is what to take with him. He might get there to find a base so well-protected that all he can do by himself is confirm its existence. He might find a flaw in their security that allows him to make a small incursion into the base to gather more intelligence for future missions. He might find that the base is so hastily established that he’s confident enough to take it out while he’s there, only he’d need a lot of equipment for a full-scale infiltration, and he’s not sure whether he’ll be able to make good time and stay inconspicuous while carrying it all. 

But then, he’s never shied away from a challenge, and they really do need to take this base out sooner rather than later, so the choice is made for him. It takes him all of two hours to assemble all the kit he’ll need, change into civilian clothing and organise transport to the docks. 

He spends the whole time drowning in guilt. 

It doesn’t matter what spin Clarus has put on it, it still feels like he’s running away instead of owning up to his wrongdoing. There are so many things he should’ve done that could have prevented her death. The media is right to blame him. The public is right to want him booted out. It’s truly no more than he deserves, and despite Clarus’ odd belief that it couldn’t have been stopped, Cor feels obliged to at least apologise to Regis in person. Regis is one of his closest friends, and Cor has failed him, miserably. It needs to be acknowledged between them. Whatever else happens afterwards, Cor has to admit his failure to those he failed. It’s the right thing to do, and then at least if Cor is fired, he can leave with a clean conscience. Just the thought of not saying anything, of trying to hide his mess-up, leaves him with a sour taste in his mouth, and a crippling sense of self-hatred. 

When he’s happy that he’s gleaned enough information on weather reports and Niff activity in the region, Cor loads his gear into a nondescript black car, then tells the driver he won’t be long before making his way through the winding corridors of the citadel to Regis’ quarters.


	2. I Didn’t Want to See You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst for you all.... enjoy! 
> 
> Fairly short chapter, but it was the best place to break off. (I'm sorry if there's any typos in this, I finished it while drinking but I will fix them asap if there are any XD)

A short series of knocks on the heavy oak door draws Regis from his brooding. He startles a little, then finds himself glaring at the ornate gold fireplace across the room from him. The neutral creams and browns of the room that had once seemed cosy now only make it feel drab and dreary. Everywhere he looks in these rooms he sees _her_. The splashes of colour in the ornaments, the wilting blue flowers she’d picked from the gardens, the collection of photographs she had had hung on the walls - them, Noctis, pictures from his road-trip with Clarus, Cor, Cid and Wesk, their wedding photos, her and her friends from court… they should all be bringing a smile to his face. Instead each time they catch his eye he feels ice in his veins. He glances away, and his attention is captured instead by the chair set opposite his own. 

That was her seat. No one else can sit there now. He can’t bear the thought of it. That was her spot in the sun. Hers and no one else’s. The only thing there now is a ghost of a memory of the kindest soul he knew. She could walk into any room and make it brighter. She could always make him smile, even when they were children. Without her, the whole world has become dull, and listless. It is losing its colour. No longer does he appreciate the brilliant night sky, because it sends daggers into his heart to think that he’ll never see the same colour in his wife’s eyes ever again. He’ll never hear her voice again, her laughter as he complained about the council to her, never again feel the warmth of being held in her arms. He misses her so much it _aches_.

Another knock shatters his maudlin thoughts, and he rises from his seat, an all-too-familiar wave of bitterness sweeping through him. Regis crosses the room, desperately wishing that whoever is on the other side would just leave, when it occurs to him that he doesn’t _have_ to answer it. He stands in front of the door, still mildly flummoxed by his realisation. Why the fucking hell should he answer it? His time is his own, and it can’t be Clarus, because it’s not time for the meeting they have, and Clarus wouldn’t have bothered knocking. With a fierce scowl, he goes to head back to his seat, when a muffled voice calls out. 

“Regis? Regis, it’s me. Please can I talk to you?”

It’s not a voice he particularly wants to hear right now. 

With a snarl, Regis turns back to the door and yanks it open with far more force than he needs to. Cor stands on the threshold, in civilian clothing, and offers him a nervous-looking smile. 

“Hi. I’ve got a mission, and-”

“What makes you think I care about that?” Regis spits, narrowing his eyes at Cor.

The Marshal’s mouth flattens into a thin line. His peeved expression sparks anger in Regis’ gut. 

“And I wanted to talk to you before I leave.” Cor finishes, still looking distinctly unimpressed at being interrupted. 

_He can be as unimpressed as he wants,_ Regis thinks viciously.

“Well,” He grinds out, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning his weight against the doorframe. “Talk then!”

Cor’s face drops into a slight frown. “Can’t I come inside?” 

Regis rolls his eyes, but he relents, backing into the room so Cor can follow him. The door falls shut behind them. Regis doesn’t move to sit down, since he has no intention of making this conversation a long one. There’s something damaged between him and Cor since she died. Between Cor being the last person to see her - dead and alive - and the insinuations the press have been making, Regis can’t help but feel growing resentment towards him.

Cor stands a few feet from him, hovering uncertainly. His gaze searches Regis’ face, but whatever he’s looking for he doesn’t seem to find it. Regis fights not to grimace as he imagines what he looks like right now. His shirt is rumpled from how he’d been sitting, and there’s more than a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin, but frankly, he doesn’t care much right now. As the silence begins to stretch on into uncomfortable, Regis simply raises an eyebrow, and Cor gets flustered for all of a second before he speaks. 

“I just wanted to apologise.” He mumbles, not quite meeting Regis’ eye.

“Apologise?” Regis echoes, that spark of anger flaring again, a little brighter this time. Regis isn’t sure what he was expecting Cor to want to talk to him about, but it sure as hell wasn’t this!

Cor nods once. “For letting you down.” 

Regis’ scowl deepens. Grief stabs his heart anew as his thoughts turn once more to Aulea. He’s not an idiot, he knows full well that Cor feels guilty about her death. It’s obvious in the way he’s been skulking around and avoiding Regis the past few weeks. Regis has let him, mostly because he doesn’t want to see Cor. Cor is, at least in part, guilty, because he was responsible for security, and Regis knows that logically, that’s no reason to blame him wholly for her death. But emotions aren’t logical. His grief isn’t logical, and what with the media and the whisperings of the council members around the water-cooler, his hurt is getting the better of him. Right now, logic doesn’t come into it as much as the sheer, agonising hurt he feels just by laying eyes on Cor. 

“I’m sorry, Regis.” Cor says, blunt as ever. “I don’t know how to tell you just how sorry I am, and I know an apology will never be enough to make up for this. Protecting Aulea was my job, and I failed you, and I’m so sorry.” 

Cold fury sweeps over him, his throat tight with emotion. 

“Don’t you _dare_ say her name.” He demands icily, hands coiling into fists by his side, not that it does much to hide his sudden trembling. How can Cor just stand here and say sorry in the exact same way he would if he’d upset the council again? Does he really think Regis, of all people, wants to hear his fucking apology?! 

Cor flinches at the anger in his voice, and an ugly, vindictive part of Regis is immediately satisfied. 

“I’m sor-”

“You should be fucking sorry.” Regis interjects caustically. His fury is overwhelming, he’s gritting his teeth together so hard that they’re hurting and his jaw tremors. He can feel his muscles getting tenser as his anger builds. “It’s your fault she’s dead. It’s your fault Noctis will never know his mother! It’s all your fault!

“And you have the audacity to come here and admit that, to me, to my face, and expect that saying ‘sorry’ makes it better?!” He spits, nostrils flaring as he begins to yell at the man before him. “What, do you think I’m going to forgive you?!” 

Cor’s frame seems to wilt, and his remorseful answer is directed at the floor as he shuffles his weight slightly. “I know I should’ve prevented this, and I understand you’re upset with me-”

“Upset with you?” Regis roars. Gods, he’d never realised he was capable of feeling such vehemence. “You think this-?!”

He cuts himself off, too enraged to formulate his thoughts into words instantaneously. 

“I am _way_ beyond upset with you! You were my brother! I trusted you! I trusted you with one of the two most important people in my life, and _you let her die!_ ” He screams. Hot tears splash down onto his cheeks, and he can feel his throat being torn at with the volume of his voice. “After everything I’ve done for you, _this_ is how you repay me, and you have the gall to stand there and tell me I’m just upset?!” 

A series of minute expressions flitter across Cor’s face, each one gone before Regis can tell what they are. 

“No,” Cor replies hastily. “That’s not wha-”

“ _Get out of my sight!_ ” Regis yells over the top of him, unable to stop himself from leaning forwards, getting in his face. His hands are curled into fists so tight that his nails are digging into his palms, and the small spark of pain is just enough to ground him so that he doesn’t swing for Cor. “I don’t want to see you! I don’t want to see you ever again!” 

This time, Regis can easily read the hurt on Cor’s face before it’s carefully hidden away behind a blank mask. _Good!_ He thinks hotly. _He should be hurting! He should be hurting just as much as I am!_

“Regis, _please_ , I-” 

“No!” He screams, the sound tearing at his throat. Cor winces. “I trusted you! I treated you as a brother and you stabbed me in the back! I’ve given you countless chances when I should have realised what you’re really like! I _made_ you! Without me, you’d be _nothing_!” 

Regis takes a deep breath, but it does little to reign in his anger. His chest is tight, aching with constrained rage 

“Everything you are, _Cor the immortal_ , you owe to me!” He spits out the nickname like it’s poison on his tongue. A small part of him thinks it is.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Cor asks, his own voice raising in response. His face grows as dark as thunder. “I’ve been nothing but loyal and thankful for everything you’ve done!” 

A hysterical bark of laughter works its way free from his throat. 

“Loyal and thankful?!” He shrieks, briefly glancing towards the ceiling. He takes another step closer to Cor and leans forward, screaming into his face. “ _Y_ _ou let my wife die!_ ”

“The bomb detonated three feet from her!” Cor growls back. “There was nothing I could do!” 

“Who let the bomber in? You did!” Regis snaps, his throat tight with emotion. Every muscle in his body feels tense, and it’s taking all his self-restraint not to lash out.

“That’s why I’m trying to apologise!” Cor retorts, exasperation clear in his tone. This close to him, Regis can see the building frustration in his features. His nostrils flare with every breath. 

“I don’t want your apology! Is your apology going to bring her back?! Does it change anything?! Does it magically absolve your part in this? _No!”_ Regis’ voice echoes around the vast room, booming loudly. 

“I don’t think it absolves me of anything!” Cor answers, his voice jumping up an octave in defensiveness. For a moment, his eyes clench shut as he visibly works to keep his temper in check. When he speaks again, he sounds calmer, though his words are tinged with desperation. “You’re my friend, and a brother to me -”

“ _Were_.” He corrects coldly. He straightens to his full height, jutting his chin out, to glare at Cor. “I _was_ a friend and a brother to you. Not anymore. Because you take and take and never once thank me, but when it comes to giving back… you just abandoned her.”

Cor flinches, his frame dropping drastically. “I didn’t- That’s not what happened!”

“You should have got her out of there!”

“She was already dead!” Cor yells back at him, taking a half a step forwards and planting himself firmly just inches from Regis. Where he had been upset, suddenly his icy blue eyes are alive with anger and indignance. “I would have died trying to rescue a-a-a body!”

“ _Y_ _ou should have done it!_ ” Regis growls lowly. “That’s your whole fucking job! The whole point of you being there was to protect my family! Protect _her!”_

“I would have died!” Cor exclaims, flinging his arms out to either side of him. There’s a flash of incredulity on his face, like he thinks Regis is being unfair. It rubs him up the wrong way.

Regis’ eyes narrow in pure contempt as he takes in the defensive expression on Cor’s face. He takes another step forward, but Cor’s eyes only harden in response. Their faces are only inches apart now, so close that Regis can feel each breath Cor takes ghosting across his face. 

“Good!” Regis hisses. His voice is so tight he isn’t sure he could speak any louder if he tried. He bares his teeth, absolutely seething with rage. “I wish you _had!”_

Cor recoils. Betrayal flashes across his features as he takes a stumbling step away from him, then another. Regis doesn’t move. He’s breathing heavily, and he can feel that his face is flushed bright with anger. He watches Cor school his expression back to a blank slate. When he speaks, his voice is flat, completely void of emotion. His gaze is distant, focused somewhere over Regis’ shoulder. 

“If that’s how you feel, then consider this as me tendering my resignation. I’ll complete this mission and debrief as my working notice, and then I’ll be out of your hair.” 

With that, Cor turns smartly on his heels and lets himself out of the room, his back ramrod straight and head held high. 

Something twinges in Regis’ chest at the sight. It’s not regret, more… uneasiness. 

The door slams shut, and the sound echoes around the room. The following silence that engulfs the space leaves him feeling wrong-footed somehow. Regis suddenly feels much colder. His anger dissipates slowly, and he lets out a heavy sigh. He’s all pent up, but now there’s nothing to unleash his fury on, and it leaves him itching for violence. 

He half-turns, hands balled into fists at his side, and his gaze is snagged by a framed picture on the mantelpiece. It’s from Noctis’ baptism. Clarus and his wife stand either side of Cor, who has Noctis in his arms. Noctis is sound asleep, shrouded in the traditional white and baby blue blankets gifted in Shiva’s name. They’d just left the temple, and Clarus holds both the candle lit for Ifrit and the sword gifted to Noct in Bahamut’s name, while his wife holds the pebble for Titan and a small vial of water for Leviathan. Over the swathe of blankets, there’s a little tuft of black hair visible, and Cor’s eyes are crinkled, a warm smile curving his lips as he stares down at the slumbering prince. 

It had been a happy day. 

Now Regis stares bitterly at the photo, his lingering anger warring with regret in his chest. Aulea wouldn’t have wanted him to lash out at Cor like that, no matter how justified it is. She, like everyone else Regis has ever known, had an inexplicable soft spot for Cor. He did as well, but not anymore. Not anymore. He scrubs his hands over his face, letting out a frustrated groan, and turns away from the picture. 

He collapses back into his bed, drawing the covers up over himself without getting undressed. He can’t bring himself to care how dishevelled he’ll look in his meetings later. A swell of loneliness overtakes him, and he suddenly notes the tears on his cheeks as he stares blankly at the wall. Regis doesn’t even try and keep track of time as he lies curled up in the too-large bed, just feeling tired and...empty. Every time he closes his eyes, there’s another memory there ready to suffocate his heart in misery, so he doesn’t try to sleep. Instead he waits for Clarus to fetch him for his meeting, a maelstrom of emotions swirling around his chest, leaving him detached from reality. 

Regis has completely zoned out when Clarus does come for him, a gentle shake to his shoulder makes him blink blearily, and he belatedly notices that the bright sunlight from before has faded. He sighs, closing his eyes again momentarily. He has a pounding headache, and his mouth feels dry and raw from all the shouting earlier.

“Do you want me to postpone the meeting?” Clarus asks with a soft, sad smile. 

His sympathy grates on Regis’ already frayed nerves. 

“I’m perfectly capable of heading a meeting, thank you.” He rasps out, throwing the covers off himself and getting to his feet. Clarus backs away, his hands raised in surrender, and fetches his suit jacket from its hanger. Regis shoves his feet into his shoes and fastens them in no real rush, and while Clarus waits, he sees a small furrow appear between his brow. 

“What’s wrong?” He huffs out, accepting his jacket from Clarus and shrugging it on. 

Clarus twists his lips frowning unhappily. 

“I’m worried about Cor.” he admits eventually. “I gave him a mission - get him away from the press, you know - and he was hesitant to take it. Only, when I saw him before he left, he was furious… said he couldn’t get out of the damn city fast enough.” 

A wave of bitter resentment rolls over him, and he fights back a cringe. He forces himself not to outwardly react though, and instead he makes his way out of his rooms. If Clarus notices his turmoil, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Clarus,” Regis says lightly, not betraying his simmering anger in the slightest. “Mention his name in front of me again, and I'll be advertising for a new shield. Understand?”

“Regis, what the-?” 

“Do you understand?” Regis repeats firmly, his tone leaving no space for argument. 

Clarus had never heard Regis so serious before. 

“Yes.” Clarus answers eventually, sounding completely bewildered. 

Satisfied, Regis heads into the meeting room, putting aside all thoughts of the man he had once considered his brother.


	3. I Know I Made You Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! 
> 
> So sorry it's been a while, this chapter just did not want to end- 6849 words! But anyway, we're here now, and it's very grim. Please heed the updated tags!! (See end notes for TWs because spoilers)
> 
> Other than that, I hope you like it!

It only takes five days for the lush, thick greenery of Tenebrae to thin out into the more barren landscape that makes up most of Niflheim. Cor takes note of the change in scenery and tries to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he joins the throngs of people crossing the border. He takes his time though, unable to force any urgency into his journey. 

_Good! I wish you had!_

Regis’ words echo around his head, a never-ending torment that has kept him company as he’s driven through Lucis towards Cape Caem, and when he’d crossed to Tenebrae. After his initial anger had died down, he’d found himself just feeling numb and… heavy. The words had _stung_. It had been one thing to believe himself that it was his fault, and another thing entirely to have it confirmed. Cor has to admit, deep down, that he’d always been expecting Regis to forgive him. 

The notion that he _doesn’t_ \- that he also holds Cor accountable - had not occurred until it had been screamed in his face. And then, it had just triggered his defensive side. For the first time, he’d felt compelled to point out his inability to avert her death, even while still feeling wholly responsible for it. Now, thinking back on it, only brings him more turmoil. 

It had metaphorically knocked some sense into him again - he understands now why Clarus doesn’t blame him, because there was, in fact, nothing he could’ve done differently, but it still _hurts_ and he still feels guilty as sin, and now the thought that Regis not only hates him, but hates him so much he wants Cor dead…

He cringes to himself as he plods along, black duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Nothing about that conversation went well. He shouldn’t have gotten angry, or tried to defend himself, not when he’d already admitted to being guilty. 

As Cor makes his way further into Niflheim territory, the conversation replay that he can’t seem to stop in his brain leaves him questioning himself even more. Was everything Regis said true? 

_Does_ he just take and take and not return the favour? Has he never managed to properly express how thankful he is to Regis for taking a chance on a child and helping him flourish?

The newfound self-doubt brings with it a sickening wave of anxiety. 

Clarus urged him to leave… Does Clarus hate him too? Is that why he’d wanted Cor out the way so badly? Maybe he really blames Cor as well, and he’d only been trying to spare having to tell him by sending him away. Gods, that makes more sense than his chocoboshit tale about wanting Cor away from the press! Ugh, he’s such an idiot! How had he swallowed that lie?! It’s obvious now he’s thinking about it for more than two seconds! Since when does he care about Cor getting a bad rep? He never has before!

Cor stops in his tracks, holding his head in both hands. Tears well up in his eyes, and he chokes back a sob. He’s ruined everything! He’s lost everyone he cares about because of his recklessness and selfishness and his arrogance! 

He lets himself wallow in his misery for a few minutes, blinking back tears, before he forces his head back up with a heavy sigh. Readjusting the bag he’s carrying on his shoulder, he walks slowly towards the last haven he’ll stay in en route to the base. His shoulder aches under the weight of all the gear he’s carrying. If he’d known it was going to be this heavy, he’d have used another bag. But he hadn’t planned to be carrying quite so much. His second day on Tenebraean soil, he’d had to defend himself from a sabertusk, and had drawn his katana from the armiger when a chilling realisation hit him. Regis could cut him off from the armiger at any moment, and Cor wouldn’t know about it until it was too late. 

So now he’s taken everything out of it, just to be safe. It’s odd, having to remember to actually draw his blade rather than it magically appearing at his will from the magic pocket, and he’s rusty. Twice already he’s nearly become an animal’s meal because he’s been slow taking it from his scabbard. Not that it will matter much soon anyway, he thinks, cringing to himself again. 

Gods only know what he’ll end up doing with himself now he can no longer be a guard. It’s been his life for twelve years, almost half his _entire_ life, and he’d never imagined having to do anything else. Realistically, he’s fucked. He doesn’t have a single qualification to his name, and he highly doubts that he’ll have a reputation good enough to garner him any kind of work once he gets back home, all things considered. 

Still, there’s not much he can do about it now, so he trudges on until he reaches the haven. The familiar blue glow of the border brings him a little comfort. At least now he can relax for a few hours. Cor lets his kit bag fall to the ground, and a small gust of wind sets his teeth chattering. He flexes his fingers absently, trying to get some warmth back into his hands while he thinks about his next steps. 

Well, survival first and foremost, he supposes, and gets a fire going as fast as he can. The weather in Niflheim is far colder than he’s used to, and there’s only so many layers of clothing he can wear before they become too restrictive for him in fights, so he’s opted to only wear one fleece-lined jacket and has packed a hat and gloves in case it gets any colder. Even with the extra layers and his sleeping bag, he’ll need a fire to keep warm enough through the night. He picks out a bag of field rations and starts it cooking while he sets out the rest of his very crude camp. Ugh, he hates the field rations so much - flavourless mulch that is designed to make you feel full even in small portions for when there’s not enough to go around - but he’s not about to pass up an easy meal when his only alternative is hunting. It’s dropping dark already, and that means contending with daemons to get food, which, no thanks. 

Once he’s eaten, Cor rummages through his kit for a map, then settles in his sleeping bag by the fire, frowning pensively. 

He’s only a day away from the area they suspect the base to be in now, so he’ll need to stick to cover tomorrow. If the base is in use, they’ll have some kind of patrols out and about. With that in mind, Cor plans out a rough route along the base of a mountain that - if their suspected location is correct - is shielding the base from the worst of the winds over this tundra landscape. Hopefully, even if somebody is home, they won’t be patrolling that far out. Cor’s almost certain that he’ll be able to find a cave or an outcrop he can use as a camp for the next few days there while he scopes the place out. He sure hopes so anyway. Mind made up, he quickly marks the route down in pencil before putting the map away. Then, meticulously, he goes through his kit - cleaning, checking for damage, preparing what he can - until he loses the light. Unable to do anything else, he scurries further into his sleeping bag to try and stave off the cold, and lays down. 

But sleep does not come easily. He lays on his back, staring up at the brilliant vista above him. The deep blue sky is lit with thousands of stars, so many more than he’d ever see in Lucis. The stunning view would normally leave him awed, but now Cor can’t help feeling hopelessly alone. He shivers, doing his best to ignore the biting cold. The fire burns down to its embers, and still sleep eludes him. It’s futile. He’s too restless, and he can’t stop his turbulent thought from turning once more back to Regis, to the fury on his face as he’d screamed at him.

_Good! I wish you had!_

Cor kind of wishes he had, too.

* * *

The next day dawns bright, weak sunlight glaring off the snow on the mountaintops. With barely a cloud in the sky, it’s a good day for a long walk. Cor moans, blinking awake blearily. His limbs are stiff, aching from the cold hard ground. He feels completely shattered, and for a moment all he does is roll over in his bag to stare at the blackened logs and ash of the fire. 

Cor stays there a while, blinking languidly, only forcing himself to move when he feels himself beginning to nod off again. Judging by how crappy he feels, he’s only managed to grab a couple of hours of sleep. With a miserable sigh, he drags himself out of the relative warmth of the sleeping bag and packs up his camp. He eats a meagre breakfast, because he doesn’t know how long he’ll be staking out the base for, and he’d rather not have to rely too heavily on hunting if he can avoid it. Then he sets off. 

His breath drifts lazily up in front of his face as he goes, curling and twisting through the air. 

The iced-over snow crunches underfoot, groaning and creaking as it compacts under his weight. His feet ache, each step bringing a stab of feeling into them. It’s slightly disconcerting, considering the numbness that has overtaken the rest of him. His nose and fingers are completely frozen, and even with his hands in his gloves and folded under his armpits, he can barely feel them. He wiggles them intermittently, just to prove to himself that they haven’t dropped off. Cor ignores the cold as best he can - there’s not much he can do about it, and if he stops to try and make a warm drink or something, he’d only end up colder. He idly muses about moving to Lestallum when he’s back while he trudges on through a snowbank that’s nearly knee-deep. At least there it’s rarely cold. Gods, how he detests being cold. 

His eyes really sting now, not just from his leftover fatigue. The light from the sun bounces off the crystalline sheen, pricking his eyes with a horrible intensity, and there is no reprieve whatsoever. The snowfield is never-ending, and almost entirely undisturbed. The craggy mountain range in front of him and the snow and the cold are his only companions as he makes his way steadily across the bleak and barren wasteland.

Cor doesn’t know how many miles he’s come since he left civilization behind, but it feels like far too many, a feeling which isn’t helped any by his sheer sense of isolation. He hasn’t seen another soul in nearly a week, and he can’t help feeling like he’s fallen off the edge of the world. His more morose side vaguely entertains the notion that he’s been forgotten about entirely. It could well be true. He highly doubts that Regis or Clarus are thinking much about him right now, and the only other two people who might give a damn about him will have almost certainly seen the news, will know just how completely he failed Regis. And even if by some miracle they don’t also resent him, he doesn’t think they’ll be thinking much of him. Why would they, after all? He’s not worth thinking about. 

The sun is just past its peak in the sky when Cor reaches the base of the mountain. He steps into the shade gratefully, and stops by a small outcrop of rocks. He settles into a crouch and, using one hand to shield his eyes from the glare from the snow, Cor stares out into the vast, barren landscape. Away from the mountain base, there’s next to no vegetation or rocks and the snow stretches on as far as he can see, which means the base sticks out like a sore thumb.

The walls may be a whitish-grey that matches its surroundings surprisingly well, but the square structure juts out of the natural landscape, too squat and straight to be anything other than a man-made building. 

Cor purses his lips as he continues to survey the area. There’s no obvious signs of activity - no tracks leading to or from the base, no smoke, or movement around it - but Cor doubts the empire would have gone to the effort of building it only to abandon it. 

At the moment, the base is far off to his right still, so with a decisive nod, Cor picks his way through the rocks, shadowing the base of the mountain. The terrain is difficult, rocks and pebbles give way under his feet with every step, but it’s his only option if he wants to remain hidden. Walking in the snow is asking to be spotted. 

His progress is slow, and the sun is almost setting in front of him when he happens upon a cave. A bare, twiggy bush mostly obscures the entrance, which makes it almost invisible. It’s just what he needs. Cautiously, he edges his way into the entrance, his hand gripping the hilt of his katana firmly, but surprisingly there’s no daemons or wildlife hiding in it. That’s rather odd, considering the region he’s in, but Cor isn’t about to look a gift chocobo in the mouth. 

He sets up a camp, and since he’s gonna be here a few days at least, he puts a little more effort into it than the temporary camps he’s made on the way here. He breaks out a tarpaulin and spreads it around the exposed edge of the cave entrance and weights it down with rocks. Then he strays away from the cave slightly, down to another row of the sparse bushes and hacks at the trunks until he can yank them out the ground. Their wood is dense, which means they won’t let off a lot of smoke when he burns them. Straightening from his work, he slides his katana back into its sheath, then pauses, watches the sun sink lower on the horizon. The orange glow it casts along the snow is breathtakingly beautiful, but it’s not a sight he can take in for long. 

Cor wipes sweat from his brow, then picks up the two bushes he’s cut down and drags them back to his cave. As soon as he’s there, he strips branches from the bushes and builds a fire, hastily lighting it just as the last of the evening sun fades. Then, he props the tarp up on the bushes, and up over one side of the cave entrance. This way, hopefully no one is going to see the flames of the fire he’s lit, but there’s still enough of a gap for what little smoke there is to escape. Satisfied, he heats up more rations and surprises himself with how quickly he devours them. He’s _hungry_. 

With a crude camp secure, Cor digs through his kit bag until he has a notepad and pencil and a pair of binoculars. Then he grabs his sleeping bag and spreads it out on the ground, and climbs into it. He lays on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows and lifts the bottom of the tarp just enough to poke his head out. He has to break off a couple of twigs from the bushes in front of the cave to get a clear view of the base through the binoculars, but once he has, he glances at his watch, scribbles down the time, then settles in to watch. 

* * *

He spends long days watching the base from his vantage point. Cor makes note of the patrols that come and go, how many guards there are in each one, how long the gap is between each one, their route around the base. It messes up his sleeping pattern big time, trying to ensure he’s got notes on a twenty four hour period, but it’s worth it to get a full picture of what’s going on.

It takes him a week to build up a fairly reliable schedule of comings and goings. What it shows him is not good. There’s not tons of activity, but what there is does not point to this being as new a base as he’d have liked. Realistically, he’s not going to be able to dismantle it single-handedly, but the security is lax enough that he’ll stand a good chance of infiltrating for a look around. 

What’s interesting is that no one strays from the base in his direction. The dropships that he sees all land at the back of the base, and the few supply runners he’s seen leaving on snowmobiles never go past a certain point either. Cor has a horrible feeling that the land is somehow booby-trapped. But he has a good enough idea of the area to avoid, so he’s not really worried. 

He leaves it another three days, just to be sure, before he decides to go. He’s confident he can deal with any internal patrols he might come across - he’s still one of the best Crownsguards Lucis has ever seen, regardless of what happened back home - and after all, what’s the worst that can happen? 

They’ll kill him, and Regis will be happy.

Mind made up, Cor packs lock picks and extra weapons on his person, and stuffs a smaller backpack full of potions and more weapons and things that might come in handy, and a camera in case he can’t steal the files themselves. He eats the last of his field rations and sets off as the sun begins to set. He reckons it’s going to take about an hour to skirt around the potentially booby-trapped land, which will leave him with roughly an hour and a half to make his way into the relative safety of the base before it drops dark. 

He walks a couple of miles further east before he leaves the base of the mountain, then makes an arc around to the back of the base. Thanks to his thorough reconnaissance, he knows exactly when he’s going to be in sight of guard patrols, and when he’s about to be spotted, he drops into the snow, and times out the five minutes it takes the guards to move on. It leaves him colder than he was - and consequently grumpier than he was - but it makes his plan to infiltrate the base completely unseen successful. 

For all their magitek and guard patrols, Cor literally just walks up to the door he finds set to one side of a massive hangar door and steps in unchallenged. He’s greeted with a vast loading bay. There’s boxes upon boxes of weaponry and ammunition, and what looks like armour parts. Probably for MTs. At least, Cor hopes they’re for MTs. If they’ve brewed up another weird robot army it’s going to make his life hell. 

His heart cracks as he ducks between rows of crates. It’s not going to make _his_ life hell. It’s going to be hell for whoever replaces him. All he’s going to have to deal with is random airdrops, which will be a mild inconvenience at most. Heaving a sigh as he forces his thoughts in literally any other direction, Cor eases up from his crouch and makes his way along the rows of boxes towards the door which will hopefully lead him further into the base. 

He gets to the door, only to find some kind of card reader lit up on one side of the frame. Great. If he dropped and covered and got freezing cold and wet in the snow on the way here to not be able to get any further than the hangar bay he’s gonna - 

A quiet click is the only warning he gets before the door swings inwards. Cor ducks back behind the rows of boxes, heart hammering in his chest. He barely dares to breathe as he listens to the bored voices of two, maybe three, guards as they enter the vast space. Their footsteps echo loudly on the concrete, and he figures he’s hit the first of many indoor guard patrols. Not that they seem to be expecting anything to happen, but their laxness is Cor’s advantage, and he’s going to take it. 

Careful not to make a sound, Cor turns and peers over the top of the boxes he’s crouched behind. Two guards, both with their backs to him, making their way around the perimeter of the room. Okay, he can do this. 

Slowly, he eases himself out of his crouch and makes his way stealthily around the stacks of crates, shadowing their steps silently. When he’s barely a few metres away from them (gods, they really are shoddy in their work, they haven’t even glanced behind themselves once), he draws his sword and strikes. 

The first guard goes down with a muffled thud when Cor brings the pommel of his katana down on the back of his head. The second guard lets out a surprised yelp as they look to their fallen comrade, and that second of confusion is all the time Cor needs to wrap an arm around their neck and squeeze. The guard’s fingers scrabble uselessly at his arm as they gasp and try to throw him off, but Cor doesn’t let up, and it’s not long before he sees their eyes roll back into their skull, and then their body is slumping to the floor as well. 

He wastes no time in patting them down and disarming them, and he retrieves himself a key card for the door. Then, he drags their prone forms in among the boxes and thanks himself for thinking to pack rope as he trusses them up in the shadows. He takes a moment to try and find something to gag them with, and has to settle for removing their shoes and stuffing their socks in their mouths. It’s perhaps a tad harsh, but he’d rather that than have them wake up and alert someone to his presence. 

That done, Cor stashes their weapons and goes back to the door. He’s still thrumming with adrenaline after the short fight, and his palms feel slightly sweaty as he lifts the key card to the scanner. For a second, nothing happens, and then there’s the same click from before and the light turns green as the door pops open before him. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, Cor steps through it and shuts it behind him. 

The corridor he finds himself in is grey and abandoned, and at each end are more electronically sealed doors. With not much else to go on, he picks a direction at random and sets off. 

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

Getting in and out of that base ends up being like a walk in the park. Seriously, the Niffs need to brush up on their security - it was practically child’s play compared to other bases he’s infiltrated, and the fighting? Pff, he could’ve done it all blindfolded. Cor glances down at his watch in the mid-morning sun. He’d spent most of the night sneaking through the various levels of the base, snatching pictures of intel and operations, and he’d only been stumbled upon a handful of times. And most of those were because he had inadvertently walked up to the guards! Almost all the soldiers he had come across were too busy moaning about the cold to notice him. 

But really Cor shouldn’t complain. It’s done and dusted, and gone exactly to plan. No one will ever know he was there until far too late, and he can hand off the intel to Clarus when he’s back and make himself scarce. It’s midday when he’s finished packing all his stuff away for the journey back, but his stomach is rumbling, and he really needs to eat something before he starts. So he leaves his kit bag hidden away in the cave and heads up the slope of the mountain. He knows there’s wildlife up here, he’s heard it, and it doesn’t take him long to happen upon a lone hare, nibbling on a tiny patch of grass. It’s perfect. He can eat some now, and the rest will probably see him back to the haven if he’s sensible. 

Of course, that’s when the hare notices him and bolts. 

With a muttered curse, Cor follows it back down the mountainside, because damn it if he’s going to waste time finding a different hare further up the mountain. He gives chase for a long while, the heavy snow on the ground slowing them both down, and now he’s ravenous and _tired_ , and each time the hare escapes his grasp his frustration builds. He doesn’t pay mind to his surroundings, his entire focus on getting close enough to the damn thing to kill it. There’s an uneasy feeling building in his gut, but Cor ignores it, putting it down purely to hunger, until he realises with startling clarity that they’re no longer in the foot of the mountain and there’s nothing around them except undisturbed snow. Cor comes to a halt, heart in his mouth because this, this is the land he’d so carefully avoided last night, but there’s nothing he can do about the hare, and the next thing he knows there’s a whoosh of air and he’s flying backwards, and there’s heat and pain and he can’t tell which way is up and the last thing he remembers thinking is that he’s about to die and then the world fades to black. 

* * * 

Cor comes to with a groan. It takes a minute for his hazy memories to slot into place, but when they do, they’re accompanied by a dull burning in his side where he got caught in the explosion. Every breath is agonising. He blinks heavily, trying to force his eyes to stay open, vision blurry as he adjusts to the dim light.

His head is pounding, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He swallows with another groan. His mouth's as dry as sandpaper, itchy, and he can already feel a cough trying to claw up his throat. Forcing it back through force of will, Cor lifts his head (which takes far more effort than it should, since it feels as heavy as a sack of bricks) and takes stock of his surroundings. 

The room he is in is all grey, damp concrete. Great. Definitely a cell. There’s not much in the room - a small open drain in one corner, and the ratty mattress he’s lying on. A tiny rectangular barred window is set high in the centre of the wall opposite him, so a small shaft of weak daylight shines through. Across from him, there’s a solid iron door. 

Grimacing at the pain lancing through his side, Cor pulls himself into a sitting position, the cold of the wall biting into his skin where he leans against it. He has no idea how much time has passed since his would’ve-been dinner hit that fucking landmine and got them both blown up. He lets out a small sigh. 

_Perfect_. He thinks to himself miserably. _Just perfect._

Clarus is over the moon that he’s gone, Regis hates his guts, he’s been captured by Niffs, and no one else alive has any idea he’s here. 

Gingerly, he peels up his shirt - his winter jacket and his boots are gone - and glances at the wound in his side. He does not like what he finds. The wound itself is rather small, considering how close he was to the mine. A small round hole in his side, but thankfully not too deep. Blood is trailing sluggishly from it, but it has very obviously been cleaned at least once while he slept. What concerns him is the ring of inflamed red skin around it, and the horrid-smelling puss weeping from it. There’s a dark tinge to the vein leading away from it as well. It is definitely infected, and it looks like he’s got sepsis. 

He guesses Regis’ wish will come true sooner rather than later. 

Cor rests his head against the wall, let tonight his eyes fall shut. All he can do now is wait for his captors to make themselves known, or death. Whichever comes first.

* * *

Darkness has fallen when he finally hears activity on the other side of the door. He lets his head loll to one side so he can watch, but apart from that he doesn’t move. The pain in his side hasn’t gone anywhere in the hours that have surely passed since he woke, and even shifting slightly has left him gasping and wheezing in pain. 

After a few minutes of voices and footsteps, the door swings slowly inwards. 

“How nice of you to join us, Marshal.” A voice drawls with a sinister undercurrent that sets Cor on edge. 

Two people step into the room. The first is only half a head shorter than him, but broader, and more heavily-muscled than even Clarus. They’re dressed in all black, and have a mask pulled over their face. The second is clad in white robes and armour polished to a gleam. The insignia on his shoulder tells Cor he is a general, but he’s not one that Cor knows on sight. He is relatively young to be a general - probably around the same age as Clarus - but it doesn’t stop him cutting an intimidating figure as he looks Cor up and down with barely concealed glee. 

Cor’s stomach sinks.

That look promises hell. 

“Not in a talkative mood?” The general says, with a grin that’s too sharp to look friendly. “That’s a shame. I was rather hoping you would be. Still, no matter. I’m sure my colleague here can… persuade you to change your mind.” 

He forces himself not to outwardly react, even as his heart begins racing, his thoughts racing dizzyingly quickly at the implications. 

“No? Nothing to say?” The general taunts again, but Cor ignores him. He could waste precious strength rasping out a sassy comeback, but simply turning his head away in silence gets the message across just as effectively. The action gets a cruel, cold laugh from his tormentor, and then rough hands are pulling him up and manhandling him across the room. Cor staggers, breathing heavily as he lets the men shepherd him into another grey room across the hall. 

Unfortunately, this one is not so empty. To one side stands a small table with a first aid kit and drinks and two chairs. But in the centre there’s an ominous looking metal chair, and a bank of computers not far from it. Wires and tubes run between the two, and Cor has a horrible feeling he knows what it’s for. 

They push him down into it, and the movement sends pain shooting through his side. Cor grits his teeth through the onslaught of pain, curled forwards in the chair. When he can bear to straighten up, he finds his wrists have been forced into restraints. The masked man is standing, flipping switches and dials on the computer bank, and the general is lounged in one of the chairs by the table. He’s sipping at a cup, and he smiles when he sees he has Cor’s attention. The steam rising from the cup makes Cor realise how cold he is, and he hates that a shiver runs through him. The general’s look only gets smugger. 

“It’s quite simple, Marshal. I’m sure a bright man such as yourself has worked out what that chair is for.” His tone is demure, and it makes Cor’s skin crawl. “And if you’d rather be over here, and have someone look at that wound you’ve got… well, you know how this works.” 

Cor scowls fiercely. Like he’s the type of man to betray his best friends just because he’s already injured. This bastard will have to try a lot harder than that. He opens his mouth to say as much, and instead screams as electricity jolts through him. His vision goes white and he can’t breathe as his muscles spasm uncontrollably. 

When it finally stops, he’s bent forwards in the chair, his head almost touching his knees and everything _aches_ as he tries to just breathe. His body is still twitching with aftershocks, and he belatedly notices that there’s blood dribbling down his chin. He’s bitten his lip, he realises as he gingerly prods at it with his tongue. 

“Well now, that seems to have loosened your lips.” 

Gods, Cor’s itching to hit that guy. 

“Tell me Marshal, how did you get into this base?” 

Cor hauls himself upright in time to see the general stretch languidly. 

“I walked.” He spits through gritted teeth. 

His nerves sing as the electricity returns tenfold. He tries not to scream but the alternative is biting his tongue off. Losing control over his body, he cries an ungodly sound, body tensing, legs jarring against the floor as they spasm. Gods, it feels like he’s on fire, and he can’t keep his head up. He lets it fall back, and he can see stars dotted across the ceiling. He digs his nails into the armrest of the chair, and just when dark splotches start appearing, it stops. The bright lights recede, and the room falls back to the drab grey from before.

“Now Marshal I don’t mind a bit of humour, but only where it’s appropriate.” 

Cor groans, and doesn’t bother responding to the man as he tries to reign in his harsh breathing. His side is in agony now, and he swears he can feel the wound tear with each ragged breath. 

“I will ask again, how did you get into the base?”

“I told you, I walked.” He must be a glutton for punishment, or as reckless as Cid always tells him he is.

This time his response gets him a long drawn-out sigh. “Oh Marshal, I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to come to this.” 

Then the electricity comes back and it comes and goes and leaves him screaming, his nerves alight with pain, and his throat raw from the cries he can’t hold back and they keep pushing him right to the edge of consciousness and then easing off. He loses track of time as the cycle continues over and over again. His skin feels like it's on fire and like it’s peeling off, leaving his bones exposed. A faint buzzing fills his ears, and his vision blurs sickeningly. He loses focus of the room, gasping, desperate to be able to breathe, overwrought with pain. 

He thinks he sees the smug-ass general walking towards him, swimming in and out of his vision, but then the world tilts and spins away from him. 

* * *

When he wakes, he’s back on the mattress in the grotty cell. 

He feels about a thousand times worse, and his limbs still feel shaky and out of his control. He manages to raise one arm about two feet and then promptly gives up on trying to sit up. His wrists are chafed, small scabs lining them. Cor moans quietly, trying to block out the pain coming from everywhere. 

He can’t see a way out of this. 

He can’t fight, and there’s no waiting out option, because no one is coming for him. 

_I’m going to die here._

The thought hits him like a bucket of ice-water, but once it’s popped into his head, it’s rooted there. It’s inescapable - a cold, harsh reality. They will torture him until they get bored, and then he’ll die here, alone, forgotten, hated. 

Tears well in his eyes, but he refuses to let them spill over. 

He shivers miserably, and stares at the ceiling. The cold seems to seep into his bones as he’s left alone for gods know how long. He watches as shadows appear in the corners of the room, and then they lengthen, and then it’s dark again, the cold light of the moon shining through the window instead. 

The next time they come for him, the chair is gone, but his katana lies in the middle of the floor. He frowns at it, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. His limbs are aching massively, and every movement takes such a huge amount of effort. Surely they’re not expecting him to fight? Why would they want to give him a weapon? 

“There are two ways for you to stay alive now, Marshal.” The general says, then gestures loosely towards his weapon. “You can fight, or you can answer my questions.” 

Cor looks to him with an arched eyebrow, but the man only offers him a smile before he withdraws. The door clangs shut, and that’s when Cor hears it. 

A low, threatening rumble. 

He swallows as he scans the shadows of the room, and over in the far corner, he finds a pair of yellow glowing eyes watching him. For a long moment, they only stare at each other, completely still. 

Cor scrabbles for his weapon the same time the daemon lunges for him. He only just gets it raised in time to block the creature’s attack, and even then he stumbles backwards, hitting the floor unceremoniously.

The General laughs, his voice tinny as it comes through a tannoy. _"You don’t have to fight it. You could simply answer my questions._ ”

Cor grits his teeth and drags himself to his feet, holding his katana up in front of him. His arms ache with the effort, and his grip is weak. The daemon rushes at him again, and he staggers backwards, unable to muster the strength to push it away. 

It snarls, a bone-chilling, ugly sound, and its eyes gleam as they settle on him. He’s weak, and they both know it. 

“ _It really is a simple question, Marshal. I just want to know how you got in here_.” 

Cor makes the mistake of glancing towards the door, and he barely has time to look around again before the daemon is upon him. This time, he loses his footing and the horrid creature rears over him, preparing to strike. Fear overtakes him, his vision filled with long sharp claws dripping scourge and gnashing teeth and before he can think better of it, he calls out. 

“I stole a fucking key card!” 

The room begins to glow a harsh blue, and the daemon screeches and writhes and skitters away from him, and then it just seems to implode. Cor stays put on the floor, eyes frozen on the scourge which is all that remains of the daemon that had been about to devour him. 

His breathes come short and sharp, and he can’t keep the terror he’s feeling off his face when the door opens. 

“That was a wise choice, Marshal.” The general says, grinning crookedly at him. The masked man is not far behind him, and Cor’s stomach sinks. 

Of course it’s not fucking over when he’s just answered them. 

Shit. They’ve played him for a fool. 

“You stole a keycard, very resourceful. And what did you find, in your little exploration?” 

Cor bites his lip, determined not to give anything else away. It’s one thing to have told them how he got in, and another thing entirely to start telling them useful things. 

His silence gets another sigh, and the general looks to his masked companion expectantly. The man steps forwards and wrests the katana from him with ease, and then his boot connects with Cor’s midriff and Cor falls to one side, just barely catching himself before his face hits the concrete. It was in vain though, as a hand grabs the back of his neck and slams his nose on the floor. The crack echoes through the room and it takes all the strength Cor has left not to scream in pain. He feels hot blood gush out of his nose and sees it paint the floor red. From previous experience and training for this sort of thing, he knows too well this is far from over. 

“Come on now, Marshal. Play ball, and maybe you’ll be able to walk out of here yourself.” 

“Go to hell.” Cor spits out, and the grip on his neck tightens. 

The general sighs. “As you wish. Get him to sing for me.” 

“Yes, General Highwind.” The masked man answers, sounding far too gleeful for Cor’s liking.

General Highwind - Cor’s determined to remember his name - sweeps out the room, leaving Cor alone with the torturer. The mask shifts on his skin, and Cor just knows he’s grinning as he drags Cor upright and draws back a fist. 

Cor lets his eyes fall shut. All he can do now is endure, as he adamantly refuses to let down Regis, _again_ , by telling them anything. 

He’d rather die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for:  
> \- negative thoughts  
> \- implied negative/suicidal thoughts  
> \- self-hatred (kind of)  
> \- doubt and anxiety  
> \- explosion  
> \- torture (electrocution, fight or die, beatings)


	4. But Baby Brother If I Could Turn Back Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! 
> 
> So. This chapter ended up longer than I'd anticipated, but oh well! I'm not even gonna pretend I'm sorry. As always, please heed the tags, there is some graphic violence! 
> 
> Falseneun, I really really hope this helps you destress (exams suck, I know) and that you like it. I can't believe there's only one more chapter to go already O.O
> 
> But anyway, please enjoy!

Turns out, the threat of being unable to walk out of the room by himself was very, _very_ real. Cor realises that when - after a good few hours of just roughing him up - the masked asshole works his way down his leg. His hip is dislocated, then his femur is snapped, then he takes great pleasure in twisting his knee out of place. Then he cracks his fibula and tibia and when Cor’s finished writhing on the floor in agony, he makes quick work of the twenty six bones left in his ankle and foot. He can’t help but cry out as the man’s boot slams down twice on his bare foot in quick succession. Cor has to admit, this guy knows what he’s doing. He’d slammed his foot down at precisely the right places to make all his bones snap like kindling.

“Gonna tell me about the security protocols for the little prince now?” The man asks, his voice muffled by the mask. It might make him quieter, but it does nothing to hide the vicious glee in his tone as he surveys his work. 

Sadistic bastard. 

“Go fuck yourself!” Cor snarls, glaring with as much heat as he can muster. 

He doubts he cuts the rebellious image that should go with his words - barely able to keep his head off the floor, teeth gritted, panting, violent shivers wracking his frame, voice hoarse from screams… 

Yeah, not really the stoic leader everyone makes him out to be.

The man just tilts his head back and laughs. 

He crouches next to Cor’s wrecked leg and gives it a couple of pats. Cor can’t hold back his cries at the sharp jolts of pain that run through the limb. He gasps, struggling to get his breathing back under control. 

“That’s not very nice.” His tormentor drawls, settling in to kneel at Cor’s side. It’s just adding insult to injury that he hasn’t bothered restraining Cor in any way. Cor had been struggling to fight back before the asshole started on his leg, they both know he’s not going to be able to try anything now. He leans over Cor slowly, going to pick up his wrist. 

Cor watches him sluggishly. It’s hard to focus, his thoughts keep spinning away from him - though when that started, and why it’s happening when he should be thrumming with adrenalin, he can’t tell. All he knows is that he’s cold and hurting, his stomach is churning horrendously, and the longer this goes on, the foggier his thoughts are getting. 

“Let’s try another question then. What are the weaknesses of the wall?”

Bright white stars explode behind his eyelids - when did his eyes close? - suddenly as his side throbs. His ears start to ring, muscles tense as he tries to wait out the pain. Distantly, he can hear a high-pitched keening. He does his best to stop it when he realises he’s the one making the sound, but he still ends up whimpering with every desperate gasp he takes. His heart is beating wildly, far too fast, he can feel it pounding against his ribcage. He’s not sure how much time has actually passed when he finally forces his eyes back open, and sees the masked man watching him intently from above. 

Cor doesn’t understand, the man hasn’t even grabbed his wrist yet - his obvious target - what did he do that hurt so much? He blinks rapidly, trying to focus on the torturer. 

The man’s eyes narrow, and he ever so slowly shuffles away from Cor. A pressure on his side Cor hadn’t even noticed was there suddenly lets up and he groans. So the man had caught his side with his knee, Cor realises slowly. And that had hurt because... 

Oh, right. 

Overgrown bunny.

Explosion. 

It takes him a worryingly long time to piece it together. 

The masked man gingerly grabs the hem of Cor’s shirt and lifts it. He can feel it peeling away from the bloodied, oozing mess of a wound in his side, and he moans again at the horrible, pulling sensation. 

“Oh, _astrals_.” The torturer says softly, prodding at the side of the wound gently. 

Cor lets his eyes slip shut again - _it hurts, gods it hurts so much_ \- and just breathes. He thinks it’s bad, for some reason, that he can’t slow down his breathing, or his racing heart. There’s something about it that’s concerning, but he can’t remember… 

The masked man curses viciously, startling Cor back to awareness. But by the time he’s got his eyes open and the world’s stopped spinning, all he sees is the door swinging shut behind him. 

With nothing to keep him distracted from the cold, the darkness at the edges of his vision creeps in and claims him swiftly.

* * *

“...ould be a massive waste of time and my resources, which - may I remind you - are not as limitless as you seem to think!” 

Voices. Above him. 

“I am well aware of how much of your resources I require, chief Besithia. I want this man kept alive.” 

That voice. He recognises that voice. _Why?_ Where is he? He’s warm. Wasn’t he cold before?

“Why? So you can have your pet tear him apart piece by piece?” 

“How I choose to obtain information from him is of no concern to you.” 

Are they talking about him? He wants to open his eyes, wants to find out where he is, wants to ask what’s going on, but his eyelids feel so heavy. He feels weighed down. Sleepy. Maybe he should just sleep...

“General Highwind, I must protest! Saving him from sepsis just to torture him is-”

“Going to give us a great deal of helpful information.”

The voices, though quiet, are just loud enough to keep him from drifting. They sound angry. Hissing, like a wet kitten baring its claws. 

“You hope.” 

Silence falls, charged and awkward. For a moment, he thinks they’ve gone, maybe he’s alone now. He still can’t place… squabbling while he sleeps is familiar, but something’s off. It’s not right, it’s not right...

“He may carry the moniker of ‘immortal’, but he is far from it. Are you really planning to keep patching him up just to tear him apart again? And for - what? - information that will be outdated, at best.” 

“He is the Marshal of the Crownsguard, Besithia. The information will be worth it.” 

The voices are wrong. 

He slips back under.

* * *

Cor has vague, blurry memories of waking up to a soft bed, and warmth, and a young girl with startlingly silvery hair and bright green eyes sitting watching him with interest, but honestly he’s not sure if they’re memories or hallucinations.

The next time he’s sure he’s actually awake, he’s back in his cell, and general Highwind is staring down at him, frowning pensively. 

“I see you’re back with us.” Highwind intones, catching Cor’s gaze quickly. 

“Unfortunately.” Cor rasps back, struggling to sit up. His still totally broken leg remains limp and useless, which makes it ten times more difficult, and his bruised muscles ache and twinge in protest at the movement. Still, Cor grits his teeth and pulls himself upwards, not letting any of his pain known in his expression. When he’s managed to get himself propped up against the wall, he turns back to the general and finds him watching Cor with something akin to respect in his eyes. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for a change in your hospitality?” 

Highwind’s lips curl up into a smirk. “I’m afraid that now you’re not about to drop dead, it’s back to business as usual.” 

Cor nods with a sigh. It’s no more than he’d been expecting, really. 

“You should have mentioned the sepsis, Marshal.” It’s an admonishment, and one that takes Cor by surprise. He’s careful not to let it show, but he thinks it’s odd that they had expected him to point it out to them. It’s a little naïve of them, but then, he’d thought the man in front of him was young for a general when he first saw him. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Could’ve, should’ve.” Cor mutters, letting his eyes slip closed. “Someone cleaned that wound before I woke up in this hellhole. I figured you knew about it.” 

“Evidently, someone did not clean it well enough.” Highwind replies under his breath. “No matter, you’ve responded well to treatment. You are in no danger of dying now.” 

Cor can’t help it, he snorts. “If only that were true.” 

The thought is sobering, and for a long moment the only sounds in the cold, grey cell are their quiet breaths. But there’s no sense in putting off the inevitable. With another heavy sigh, Cor looks back to the general. 

“Bring it on, then.” 

* * *

“I believe that’s everything for today, your Majesty.”

Regis shifts in his seat, making the effort to sit up rather than slouch and lean his head on his fist. This stupid meeting has dragged on for two hours already, and he’d been up half the night with Noctis screaming his head off. The councilman who spoke is watching him nervously, and the others at the table are all shooting each other questioning glances. 

“No, not quite.” He sighs, rubbing at his brow. 

He watches as everyone turns to stare at him with surprise. If he’s honest, their stares are unnerving, and it puts him on edge. He really hates this job sometimes.

“No?” Clarus asks, turning a sharp gaze to him. He’s frowning. Of course he is - Regis deliberately left the last thing he needs to discuss today off the written agenda because he just knows it’s going to go down like a ton of bricks.

“No.” Regis answers firmly. His shield raises one eyebrow in silent question. He mulls over his words for a moment, but he’s sat on this news too long to try and say it in a way that’s going to sound regretful. Better to just get it over with. “Gentlemen, I need your input on who I should make Marshal.” 

He’d be able to hear a pin drop in the silence that follows his statement. The tension in the air is tangible, and he could probably cut it with a knife. It’s slowly becoming unbearable, but Regis is completely unwilling to be the one to break it. 

“Regis,” Clarus says eventually, frowning hard, his mouth twisting unhappily. “We have a Marshal. He may be on a mission, and you may have banned me from speaking his name, but he is still the Marshal.” 

“He resigned.” Regis tells him bluntly. 

“He has not! I haven’t received any notice-”

“He gave notice to me in person before he left. Upon his return from his current mission, he will be leaving.” 

“And does _he_ know that yet?” Clarus demands hotly, one fist slamming onto the table in front of him. 

Against his better judgement, Regis lets the comment get under his skin.

“What are you trying to imply, Lord Amicitia?” He asks frostily, and he doesn’t miss the way Clarus’ stare hardens at the formal address. Regis had promised himself he’d try and keep this civil, but damn it all to hell - does Clarus really think so little of him? He may be petty, he may be hurting, and lashing out at those foolish enough to piss him off, but he had never had any intention of firing Cor, no matter how much their friendship had soured. 

“I’m implying, _Regis_ , that-” Clarus starts, and the way he spits out Regis’ name like it’s left a foul taste in his mouth leaves Regis raging. 

“You dare insinuate that I - _your king_ \- would lie?!” Regis interrupts, snarling. His own hands curl into fists on the table top, as he glares furiously at his shield, the rest of the council around them completely forgotten in the face of Clarus’ anger.

“For fuck’s sake, you can’t just fire Cor over Aulea’s death! He did nothing wrong!” 

“What did I tell you about mentioning his name?!”

“Regis you’re being utterly ridiculous, not to mention cruel!”

“I’m being cruel?!” 

He can’t help but let out a little hysterical, incredulous giggle at the notion. No, cruelty would be refusing Cor’s resignation and making him weather the shitstorm that the media have stirred up. Regis sees a tendon in Clarus’ neck tighten as he grits his teeth. A vein on his forehead throbs as he spits back at him. 

“ _Yes_ , you’re being cru-”

“Your Majesty, Lord Amicitia!” An envoy interrupts abruptly. They walk briskly across the room, holding out a white letter on a tray. It’s already opened, has to be, to check for poisons. “A message from the empire.”

For a moment, nothing happens, neither of them willing to back down from their argument. But as much as he’d love to continue the spat sooner rather than later, he is all too aware of how seemingly childish it will seem to ignore a message from their enemy in favour of an argument. 

With a heavy sigh, Regis shifts in his seat and accepts the letter. The envoy looks awfully nervous as he allows Regis to pick up the single sheet of paper before withdrawing a couple of steps.

“What does that old fuck want to rub in my face now?” He mutters, scanning quickly over the words. 

“Your Majesty, my lords,” The envoy says again, giving a small bow. “The empire claims to have captured and executed Marshal Leonis.” 

Regis finds the phrase in writing at the same time the words sink in.

He can’t honestly remember exactly what happened in the council room after the envoy passed on the news. 

The next thing he knows is that he’s kneeling next to his chair, arms wrapped around Clarus, who’s sobbing, and screaming into his shoulder, so overwrought with pure, agonising _loss_ that he sounds almost like a wounded animal. 

Regis is cold. 

His chest is caught in an icy vice, and every part of him feels numb - too numb for thoughts, or words, or actions. All he can do is cling on to the only brother-in-arms that he hasn’t left behind or lost. 

A million things whirl through his mind, thoughts racing in so many different directions he can’t follow a single one to anything comprehensible, to anything that makes any kind of sense…

Cor can’t be dead.

He _can’t_ be. 

It’s… unthinkable.

He’s _Cor_.

He’s… he’s the immortal, for Bahamut’s sake, he can’t be dead!

And yet. 

His grip on Clarus tightens as the sight of the letter - lying innocently on the floor where he must’ve dropped it - makes him feel like ice water has been thrown over him again. 

Unbidden, the memory of Cor’s face falling as he screamed at him he wished he was dead comes to the front of his mind. His throat tight with guilt, Clarus still screaming into his shoulder, Regis lets his eyes slip shut, but he doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t deserve to cry.

* * *

They end up in Regis’ private office, sitting in sombre silence, a crystal decanter that’s now less than half-full of whiskey between them on the desk. 

“This is all my fault.” Clarus whispers shakily, staring down at his empty glass, his eyes still red-rimmed from crying.

Regis can only blink for a moment as he tries to find his voice. 

“No, it’s not.” He says eventually, voice raspy. The whiskey has left his throat dry and burning, and it’s about the only thing that makes the pain of his guilt bearable. “How could it be?” 

“I gave him that mission, even though I knew he was still struggling.” Clarus answers quietly, gaze still locked on the miniscule amount of whiskey in the bottom of his glass. Regis watches as he absently swirls it round before he brings the glass to his lips and knocks it back in one mouthful. “I told him I thought he should go.” 

He sighs as he sets the glass back down on the table. 

“I told him I wished he’d died alongside Aulea.” 

For the first time since they’d come here, Clarus looks up at him. 

Regis slowly looks away, unable to look him in the eye. 

“We argued, before he left.” He explains quietly, his grip on his glass tightening. “He came to apologise, about how he’d failed me, and I couldn’t hear it. I didn’t want to hear it. So we argued, and I told him it was his fault, and that he should’ve saved her. When he tried to defend himself, I told him he should’ve died trying to get her out. I said I wished he had.” 

Guilt claws at his chest; makes his throat so tight it’s hard to speak.

“He died believing that I hate him.”

The evening sun casts the room in a warm glow, but it does nothing to dislodge the cold in Regis’ chest. A bitter wave of hatred rolls over him as his thoughts turn once again to the last time he’d seen Cor. 

His little brother. 

They remain silent, although in light of their respective admissions it isn’t quite as suffocating. Regis’ misery doesn’t go anywhere, and his heart aches fiercely with each breath he draws. How could he ever have been so blinded to have said those things? How had he ever convinced himself he believed them? Why had he ever let the media - the fucking _media_ , that he grew up learning to ignore - get inside his head? He’d let them plant a poisonous seed there, and it had grown, and now, it had cost him the life of his brother. His stomach turns as he tries to digest that. 

The sun has long since set when Clarus next speaks. 

“I just can’t believe it.” He says, and his voice breaks. Regis doesn’t even need to look up to know that he’s crying again. His wobbly breathing, and the tightness of his voice tells him so. “I can’t believe we’ll never see him again.” 

The words seem to echo in his head, like he’s heard them before somewhere. It takes him a long time to place them, but when he does, he swears softly under his breath. 

That’s almost exactly what Clarus had said when Mors had died, and the reality that neither of them could really leave Insomnia to visit Cid or Wesk again had set in. 

Speaking of… 

Regis draws his phone out of his pocket, and dials Wesk’s number first, but it goes straight to voicemail. Not quite holding back his sigh, he simply asks Wesk to call back when he’s free then hangs up. 

He finds Cid’s number, hand hovering over the call button for long moments. This is not a phone call he’d ever envisaged having to make, despite how likely it had always been that Cor might die out in the field. How the hell does he tell Cid that the man he considered his second son had been killed?

Across from him, Clarus’s shoulders are hitching as he cries, and Regis winces at his friend’s distress. He gently presses a hand over one of Clarus’ and Clarus takes it in his own and squeezes hard, but he still doesn’t speak. 

Swallowing hard, Regis dials. The ringing as he waits for Cid to pick up feels awfully like a countdown to something very final. 

“ _Whaddya want?_ ” Comes the painfully-familiar gruff tone. 

“Cid.” Regis just manages to greet him before a lump rises in his throat and his eyes well with tears. He blinks them back, though, because he doesn’t deserve to cry over this, not when he’d literally said he’d wished for it, and someone will need to be strong for Clarus and Cid, and Wesk, when he can eventually tell him. 

“ _Reggie, big argument about the damn wall ringing any bells?_ ” 

“Yes,” Regis answers, eyes burning and throat raw, tight with emotion. 

_“Are ya pushing the damn thing back out?”_

Cid takes his silence as the answer it is.

“ _Then what the hell are ya callin’ me for?!_ ” 

“I…” Regis trails off, struggling to find the words. “Are you… safe, at the moment? Free to talk?” 

There’s a heavy sigh in response to his words. _“Reggie, for the love of the six-”_

“Cid, _please.”_ Regis interrupts, imploring. He hopes Cid can figure out how serious he is from that one word, because he sure as shit doesn’t know what he’ll do if this devolves into an argument. 

For a moment, there’s more grumbling, but then Cid answers, albeit sounding far more irritated than he had before. _“Yes, fine! What did you wanna talk about?”_

He sounds so put-upon, and Regis can picture the eye-roll going along with those words. Gods, he doesn’t want to be the one to do this. 

“It’s Cor.” He manages to say eventually. “He…”

_“Reggie, is this to do with what happened with Aulea?”_ Cid asks, his tone a hundred times softer than it was before. 

He grimaces for a moment, pushing back a fresh wave of guilt. Probably better to go for this like ripping off a band aid. Cid always prefers getting straight to the point, anyway.

“No. He’s dead, Cid.” 

His statement is met with silence, so he continues unsteadily. “He went on a mission, and we received word today from the empire that they captured and executed him.” 

Cid makes a wounded sound. 

“I’m sorry.” Regis says, his heart breaking all over again. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

In some ways, planning Cor’s funeral is worse than planning Aulea’s. 

Regis tries to convince himself it’s because Cor is younger, or maybe because they don’t actually have a body to bury, but deep down, he knows the real reason it hurts so much more.

Because it’s his fault Cor is dead.

It’s been a scant two weeks, but Regis has had plenty of time to think about it. Going on a mission like that, Cor had told him once before, he needed to be able to leave everything behind. Distractions couldn’t be afforded, because they would lead to death. And he doesn’t have to think very hard to realise what might have been distracting Cor enough that he got caught.

If he hadn't screamed at him, maybe Cor could’ve escaped, or maybe they wouldn’t have had an opportunity to capture him in the first place. 

He knows thinking in ‘what ifs’ is fruitless, and completely pointless, but he can’t help but wonder. If he’d been less of an asshole, maybe Cor would’ve made it home. 

No matter which way he thinks about it, he can only blame himself.

He is to blame for his three closest friends’ tears. He is to blame for the upset and destroyed morale among the crownsguards as they mourned the best Marshal they had ever - and probably would ever have - had. He will never forget their faces as he’d announced it, and the devastation on Monica’s face as he’d offered her further condolences and any support she needed to take over as Marshal will be forever etched into his memory. 

He is to blame. 

And not only that, but trying to plan his funeral brings into sharp relief how much he’d neglected Cor. Because they can’t even agree on _flowers_ that he wouldn’t have minded, let alone any other details. And now Regis wishes he’d pushed a little further every time they’d asked Cor about his family, instead of basking in the warmth that had come with Cor telling them that they were his brothers and as long as he had them by his side he didn’t need any other family. They don’t even know if there is any family - as horrible or unneeded as they might’ve been deemed - to inform. 

Gods, how Regis has let him down.

It’s all his fault, and the knowledge sits uncomfortably in his chest and keeps him numb, keeps him feeling like there’s an empty vacuum where his heart should be, keeps him unable to express any of the overwhelming mix of emotions he feels, because he doesn’t deserve the release of expressing them. 

A small part of him wonders if this is how Cor had felt over Aulea’s death, and that thought only makes him feel like even more of a failure. 

Some brother he’d been.

“I’m telling ya, he wouldn’t have wanted such a big hoo-ha!” 

Cid’s fuming voice draws Regis from his thoughts and he blinks back to awareness.

“I know!” Clarus sighs. “But he’s the Marshal. There’s a… standard, we have to maintain. It’s expected.” 

“To hell with the expectations of anyone that ain’t him or us!” 

“Cid, Clarus, please.” Wesk interrupts them both quietly, staring contemplatively at the mess of notes and half-plans on the table in front of them. “I think we can all agree he wouldn’t have wanted us to argue.” 

Both men relent, and for a moment they sit in silence. 

At the very least, this has rather forced the issue of reconciling with Cid. 

“Snapdragons.” Regis says suddenly, looking at the list of potential flowers. “He liked snapdragons.” 

Clarus hums thoughtfully. “Strength and apology. That’s not a wildly inappropriate message to send out, right?”

Wesk shakes his head. “No, they’d be perfectly acceptable, although we’d need to balance them out with something else, or else the media will probably read too much into their meanings.” 

“Forget-me-nots.” Cid says. “Same blue as his eyes, an’... well. I think their meaning is obvious enough.” 

“Snapdragons and forget-me-nots.” Wesk echoes, taking a fresh sheet of paper and writing it down at the top of the page. “Well, that’s one thing agreed, at least.”

* * *

Their careful selection goes out of the window on the day, with many people - Regis among them - getting bunches or wreathes with a variety of flowers to express their sympathy, and nobody - not even Wesk - can bring themselves to mind, because their plans going so awry would have made Cor laugh so much.

Gladiolus brings his namesake flower to lay on top of the empty casket, because the flower itself is meant to represent strength and character, and because the three-year-old wants his uncle to be able to remember him, always, in his eternal life, and what better way than for him to take a Gladiolus with him?

And if Regis’ own bunch that he lays at the foot of the fresh, black marble headstone sends a message more of sorrow, and regret, and unconditional love, well, then no one except Clarus will understand.


	5. If I Could Find A Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> I am so sorry I've been so quiet lately - I got a job!! Anyway, have chapter five of this and please note that this IS NOT actually the final chapter! It was meant to be, but then it got quite long, so I decided to split it into two. Heh, sorry! 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this, especially falseneun, who's the reason this fic got written at all. (Again, I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update this).

“You’re a dead man.” 

The silver-haired girl - not a hallucination, as it turns out - tells him, shoving a newspaper in his face as the door to his cell slams shut behind her. 

Cor huffs, then winces when it pulls at his ribs. 

Gods, but everything hurts now. 

Slowly, he looks up and focuses on the paper. Just below the headline, there’s a picture of the temple back in Insomnia, of six crownsguards in full dress uniform carrying a coffin on their shoulders. Slightly further down the page is a paparazzi shot of Regis and Clarus, their faces sombre and forlorn. The picture caption declares them to be mourning their colleague and close friend. Cor frowns momentarily, wondering whose funeral it is, then what he’s looking at properly registers.

It’s  _ his  _ funeral. 

“Then my king will be happy.” He eventually rasps out, ignoring the sharp swell of emotions in his chest.

“You don’t seem upset.” She says, watching him closely. “Aren’t you upset that no one thinks you’re alive? You know that means no one’s coming for you, right?” 

General Highwind’s daughter, Aranea, reminds him an awful lot of his younger self. She’s all sharp edges and vicious replies and trying to prove that she’s oh-so-grown-up at the ripe age of eleven. 

“No one was ever coming for me.” He answers softly, letting his eyes slip shut, his head resting on the cold concrete of the wall behind him. He can’t keep a grimace off his face. 

“They won’t even come rescue you, and you still make it so my dad has to hurt you. Why? Why be loyal? You know eventually he’ll kill you.” 

“Some things are worth dying for.”

Cor means it. Argument with Regis aside, he’d never betray him. Even if he wasn’t fiercely loyal to his king, betraying him would spell death and terror for so many innocents, it’s not even a factor. He’d seen lives destroyed by war - by the empire - witnessed first-hand the suffering masses left behind in the wake of an empire advancement. He could never be a part of that. 

“I don’t get you.” Aranea says, her head tilting to one side as she studies him like he’s a particularly vexing puzzle. 

Cor lets out a soft snort. It pulls at his abused body, a fresh wave of pain breaking over him. The only part of him that doesn’t actively hurt is his mangled leg, and he has enough medical knowledge to know that’s not a good thing. His shoulders ache - days of being suspended by them taking their toll, and his ribs sting with every breath. He’s been held captive for almost seven weeks now, though two of those he’s spent unconscious, what with the explosion and then the sepsis. In the other four weeks of his imprisonment, though, he’s been whipped, burned, punched and beaten, electrocuted, waterboarded… the list goes on. Cor rather gets the impression that Highwind is getting more desperate for information from him. It doesn’t matter, one because Clarus will have changed details of any kind of security Cor knows about already, and two because he’s probably going to die before Highwind decides he’s outlived his usefulness anyway. All Cor has to do is wait him out, and he can die with a clean conscience. It’s just a game that Cor  _ will  _ win, and they both know it. 

“One day, when you find a just cause you believe in, you will.” He says, staring at the damp wall opposite him.

The door slams shut again, and Cor tells himself the pang in his heart is from pain, and not from the feeling of being utterly, completely alone.

* * *

Sospes Nox Fleuret, despite being prince consort, likes to be actively involved in his work. It’s frowned upon by almost everyone in his wife’s court, but he is first and foremost a soldier - well, a commander now, but the point is that he detests sending his people out to do battle and risk their lives from the comfort of his home. So he goes with them. Because it’s the right thing to do. 

And when there’s a job that needs doing that no one else is willing to risk their lives over, he’ll do that too. 

One has to lead by example, after all. He can hardly expect his soldiers to keep putting their lives on the line for him if he never shows an inclination to do the same in return. 

Admittedly, if he were still a mere soldier and given the choice to volunteer for this particular mission, he’d turn it down. It is an unbelievably foolish mission, and if it goes wrong, it may well invoke Niflheim’s full wrath. Still, it has to be done, and so Sospes makes his preparations. 

Ravus and little Lunafreya will be safe with their nannies until either he or Sylva return home. It’s not ideal, but this mission will be much more likely to succeed if he leaves now, and Sylva is still on her pilgrimage through Lucis following Queen Aulea’s death, restoring havens and healing the infected, so it can’t be helped. He can’t begrudge her her duties as oracle, just as she can’t begrudge him his duties as commander of the Tenebraean forces. 

The base is a development he doesn’t like at all, and he’d asked Sylva to pass on their intelligence on it to Lucis when she went in the hopes that they’d act on it, since it’s no secret they have the better fighting forces. But thus far, he’s been keeping an eye on it from a distance, and nothing has changed, so he’s taking matters into his own hands. 

So he makes his way through the snow and sneaks into the base with a pass one of his soldiers had managed to acquire on a separate mission weeks earlier. The corridors are eerily deserted, and Sospes meets basically no resistance as he wanders through the base, searching for anything that might hint to its purpose. 

It’s slightly unnerving how easy it is. 

He gets copies of intelligence reports and mission details and anything else he can get his hands on, making his way steadily through the base’s sublevels. He’s poking about in a room stacked almost to the ceiling with files - all the information seems to pertain to the starscourge - when he hears a set of footsteps heading down the corridor outside. 

Sospes hastily ducks between a set of filing cabinets, silently praying that whoever is there won’t come into the room. His heart is pounding rapidly in his chest, but it’s the voices that drift through to him that chill him to the bone.

“His majesty believes he is dead, so he won’t have changed any intelligence, will he? So there’s no sense in-” 

“That’s all good and well in theory, Avem, but information always becomes outdated at some point. I won’t waste time and resources on him much longer. If he’s not talking by tomorrow, I’ll kill him.”

“General Highwind, he’s far too high-profile to pass over! Think of the possibilities! If he were to switch sides-”

“Have you met our esteemed prisoner, commander?” Highwind snarls the rank like it’s some kind of poison, both sets of footsteps coming to a sudden halt. 

“N-no, general.” The other voice admits slowly, filled with fear.

“Then do not assume it is your place to lecture me on possibilities! He is not the kind of man who changes his loyalties over something so meaningless as his own life.” 

“Yes, general.” The other man replies, subdued.

With that, the footsteps continue past. 

For several minutes, Sospes stays in his hiding spot, evaluating what he’s learnt. 

It’s obvious enough that there’s a Lucian prisoner here, which means that Lucis had been trying to act on the intelligence he sent. But something had gone wrong. And from the sounds of it, whoever they’ve captured is important enough to have information that the empire wants. 

That’s all Sospes needs to know to decide his next course of action.

He leaves the room, and sets off to the nearest stairwell, and heads down into the base’s sub-levels. From there, it doesn’t find him long to find the cells. And there’s only one cell with an occupant. 

He swipes his liberated pass card over the sensor and steps into the damp, concrete room. The sight that greets him is so awful Sospes is sure it will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He’s honestly not sure if the young man lying on that ratty mattress is still alive. 

“When’re you gonna realise I’m not gonna tell you shit?” A tired voice laced with misery rasps out, startling Sospes out of his reverie. 

“I am not your enemy.” He says softly, stepping towards the prone form. 

He runs his eyes over the soldier, and he has to admit, the young man’s chances don’t look great. He can see electric burns and aggravated scabs littered over his torso and arms, the skin around his wrists is inflamed and peeling, and there are angry red marks dotted around his throat. On top of that, his skin is black and blue with bruises, and that’s without even mentioning his leg! That leg… Sospes won’t be surprised if he ends up losing it,  _ if  _ the guy manages to stay alive long enough to make it to Tenebrae. 

The Lucian’s ragged breathing stills for a moment, and then,  _ painfully  _ slowly, he turns his head towards Sospes and blinks his eyes open. He makes a hoarse, disbelieving sound of recognition, and Sospes smiles tentatively. 

He crouches next to the mattress, keenly aware of the soldier’s eyes on him as he inspects the broken leg more closely. 

It’s not good at all. 

But Sospes is simply not the kind of person to walk away and leave someone to be killed, nor does he believe in killing someone who’s fought so hard to stay alive, even if it arguably is the merciful thing to do. 

He purses his lips with a sigh, but he turns to regard the soldier and holds out a hand. 

“Feel up to getting out of here, soldier?” 

Teeth gritted, a sheen of sweat on his brow, the Lucian raises one arm and grasps Sospes’ wrist loosely. 

Ignoring the twinge of doubt for his survival Sospes feels, he grips the man’s wrist right back, and hauls him upright. 

He tucks the soldier’s arm over his shoulder and wraps his other hand around his waist, keeping his weight off his broken leg. It’s not ideal if they’re attacked, but it’ll have to do. There’s no way the soldier’s going to walk out unaided, and carrying him will be as inconvenient for fending off attacks, and far more physically taxing. 

They make their way slowly back through the base, but it takes much longer, considering they have to stop every few metres to let the soldier rest. But thankfully, the base remains as empty as it had been when he made his way into it. That is, until the alarm klaxon starts blaring. 

Sospes curses under his breath, tightening his hold on the tiring soldier as he starts moving faster towards the door at the end of the hall. They’re not far away now, there’s only about three more doors between them and freedom; maybe, if they keep moving, they can still make it before someone catches up to them. 

“Stop.” The soldier gasps, breathing heavily as he stumbles next to Sospes. “Just leave me. Get out.” 

Sospes grits his teeth and keeps walking determinedly towards the door, scowling furiously. 

“I don’t know about your commanders back home, but I’m not the kind of person to leave someone behind.” He replies tersely, and tries not to think too hard about how much pain the other man must be in when the only response he gets is a bitten-back cry. 

He lets go of the soldier’s hand - still draped over his shoulder - as he all but drags him to the door, and swipes the pass over the sensor, but to his frustration and building concern, nothing happens. 

“Fucking hell, come on!” He whispers harshly, trying again. Still, the red light proclaiming the door shut doesn’t waver. Adjusting his grip on the soldier, he glares at the light, about to try for a third time when the door at the other end of the corridor swings open and footsteps rush towards them, only to stop short with a quiet gasp. 

He turns to face the newcomer, and is taken aback when he sees a young girl, only a few years older than Ravus, watching them, looking hesitantly between them and the door. 

“Young girl, I do not wish to harm you.” Sospes says, and she turns back to glare at him with narrowed green eyes. 

“They’re looking for  _ you _ . That’s why the alarm’s going off.” She says, and then shifts her weight subtly into a more balanced fighting stance. 

“I do not wish to harm you.” He repeats again, eyeing her cautiously. She has a small dagger sheathed at her waist, but he doubts that she’ll pose much of a threat to him, should she decide to attack.

“Are you Lucian?” She asks, voice guarded, regarding him and the soldier with caution.

“No.” He tells her softly. He doesn’t know what bearing his answer will have on her course of action, but he’s not going to lie to a child. Besides, children are far more perceptive than most adults give them credit for; she’d probably see straight through such a blatant lie. 

“Are you taking him home?” She indicates the drooping soldier with a nod of her head.

“If I can.” Sospes answers honestly again. It’s fairly obvious anyway - why else go to the bother of breaking him out? 

For long minutes, she doesn’t respond, the only sound is the high-pitched whining of the alarm. Sospes waits her out patiently, shifting his grip on the soldier ever so slightly so he can get to his sword if need be. He has no intention of hurting her - would  _ never  _ raise arms against a child - but it might come in handy to stop her running for help. The tension between them is tangible, the air so thick it could be cut with a knife. All the while, Sospes keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the girl while she deliberates.

“There’s a code. The cards won’t work while the alarm’s on.” She sighs heavily, and jogs past them to the door, then punches in a string of numbers on the little keypad. The light switches from red to green, and she pushes the door open, gesturing for Sospes to follow her. 

Letting out a sigh of relief, he hobbles through with his charge, and once they’re on the other side, she slams the door shut behind them and races along to the next. As he hauls the soldier - who’s now mostly a dead weight - along, he watches as she sticks her head around the next door, glancing around warily before she declares it safe and ushers them through. 

Sopses thanks her gratefully as they reach her, and she tries to roll her eyes, but she’s obviously a little flustered at being thanked too. 

“Will you be safe here?” Sospes asks, following her through the corridors as quickly and quietly as possible. There’s only the door back out into the hangar to get through, and then they can make it outside. 

The girl shrugs. “My father’s the general in charge. I won’t be hurt, even if they catch me helping you. He’ll probably just send me back to boarding school.” 

“If you want to come with us-” 

“No.” She cuts him off, tone completely dead.

“Very well. Thank you for your help.” He replies, hoping his sincerity comes across.

“It’s okay.” She says, glancing at the soldier softly. “Something he said the other day stuck with me.” 

Sospes tries not to think about the potential implications of that (mainly that a girl so young seemingly has access at least to his cell, and had maybe even watched him being tortured), and instead offers her a smile, and a nod. 

Then she opens the door, and watches them go.

The hangar is empty, Sospes guesses, because most of the guards have been called inside to look for him. Whether that’s the reason or not, he sends off a quick prayer of thanks to the six as he begins the arduous process of helping the soldier back home through the snow. 

It’s not helped any by the waning strength of the soldier, nor by the fact he insists on a ludicrous detour from Sospes’ route, which he refuses to explain. That is, until they reach the soldier’s kit bag, half-frozen into the ground by a small rocky outcrop. 

Fighting back the urge to yell, he spends the better part of an hour digging and kicking the thing free from ice before he can haul it over his shoulder. At least, he supposes, as he helps the soldier back to his feet, the poor man got some rest. 

By the time they reach the Tenebraen side of the border and faster transport, the man’s breathing is raspy, his eyes clenched shut in what must be unimaginable pain. Sospes isn’t surprised in the slightest that he passes out as he drives them home. 

* * *

“Hello, my darlings!” 

Sospes turns away from the mission report he’s meant to be reading at the sound of his wife’s cheery greeting. 

Ravus and Luna are quick to jump up from their toys and run over to her, and she wraps them up in a warm hug, laughing lightly as they clamour for her attention. 

Sospes makes his way over to them slowly smiling fondly as he reaches her.

“Hello, my love.” He says warmly, pressing a small kiss to her cheek. 

“Now we get you both back! Come play, mummy!” Luna squeals delightedly, trying to drag Sylva over to their toy pile to play with her. 

“You do indeed.” Sylva smiles indulgently. “But just before that, mummy needs a drink, darling, and a quick chat with daddy.” 

“Okay!” Luna says, happily returning over to her toys sans mother for now. 

Ravus gives his mother a final hug before he joins Luna, though he keeps glancing over at them. He’s cottoned on to the fact that this will be an adult conversation, and he’s at that age where he wants to be in on it, even though it will probably bore him. 

“They get us both?” Sylva queries, turning to him with a knowing smile and an eyebrow raised. “What have you been up to now?” 

Sospes grins ruefully. “I wanted to check out that base, since I thought the Lucians weren’t doing anything about it.” 

Sylva frowns. “Dear, I told you, I handed that information to Regis’ shield directly. He wouldn’t have ignored it.” 

“No, they did not. I only thought they had. I found the soldier they sent in the base when I went last week. He’s in the medical wing, though his recovery, I’m told, is still touch and go.” Sospes explains quietly. 

“I see.” Sylva replies, frowning. “So you left our children to infiltrate an enemy base  _ alone _ , and dragged back a wounded soldier.” 

“I couldn’t leave him, Sylvie love, they were going to execute him.” 

Sylva sighs explosively, but she shoots him an exasperated grin and pulls him into a hug. He wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

It’s good to have her home.

After they’ve exhausted their children, leaving them in the capable hands of their nanny, he takes Sylva to see the soldier, at her insistence. She’s a healer, after all, and she’s alway eager to help anyone in need. Gods know the soldier qualifies. 

He leads her to his room and heads in without knocking - he’s been unconscious since the drive back here, and currently the doctors have decided to simply put him in an induced coma if he does wake up. 

“Here we are,” Sospes says, allowing his wife to enter the room before him. “And believe it or not, he already looks a thousand times better than when I found him.” 

Sylva’s eyes widen and her hands fly to her mouth as she takes in the man before them. 

“Sospes!” She exclaims, turning to him. 

“I know, it’s pretty bad, isn’t it?” He says, because pretty much everyone who’s seen him had had that same reaction. 

“No, Sospes, you idiot!” She hisses, hitting his arm lightly with one hand. 

He gets to look affronted for all of a second before she carries on. 

“Don’t you know who that is?!” 

“No…” Sospes answers, uncertain and drawn out. “Should I?” 

Sylva facepalms, sighing heavily. Then, much to his confusion, she starts digging around through her handbag. It takes her a couple of minutes to come up with her mobile, and once she has it, she immediately begins typing something. 

“That’s the Marshal of the crownsguard, Sos!” She tells him, still frantically typing. 

“The Marshal who died three weeks ago? Somehow, my love, I doubt that.” 

“No, you-” Sylva reins in her retort and sighs, eyes shut. “The empire  _ said  _ they killed him. It was never confirmed. They had no way of verifying it!” 

Oh. 

_ “His majesty believes he is dead, so he won’t have changed any intelligence, will he? So there’s no sense in-”  _

The words of the chastised commander come back to him, and suddenly that small snippet of conversation makes a lot more sense. 

_ Oh _ . 

“Oh,” He says weakly, glancing back at the comatose man. He looks so vulnerable, surrounded by a myriad of machines and monitors. His leg is up in traction, precariously pinned in place, and casted where possible. He knows the doctors are concerned about the effect that might be having on his recently relocated hip, but at the moment they’re in agreement that his leg takes precedence. It’s a miracle they saved it at all, really. 

“I didn’t realise he was so young.” Sospes murmurs, not tearing his eyes off the Marshal’s pallid face. 

“Honestly, Sos, he’s about the one Lucian I’d have expected you to know on sight, since you usually have so much admiration for his leading style.” Sylva says, phone pressed to her ear, the ringing just audible.

“I’ve never met him though!” Sospes retorts, huffing. He folds his arms across his chest, but it’s hard to keep up his minor annoyance when his wife starts to grin at him. 

“So Cor the Immortal doesn’t ring any bells at all?” 

“I know his name.” He says, sighing. She’s only teasing, but he knows she’s going to hold on to this forever, because he does have a great deal of respect for Cor Leonis, and the fact that he didn’t recognise him is by far the most humiliating mistake of his life. 

She offers him a smile and pats his arm gently, just as the call connects. 

“One moment, your Majesty. I shall fetch Regis for you.” A voice says, tinny over the long-distance call, and Sylva quickly thanks him. 

Sylva leans into Sospes’ side, and he wraps one arm around her shoulder, pressing his lips to her brow. She smiles up at him, and they both smirk as they listen to a conversation on the other end of the call, only just audible over the unmistakable sound of a very upset baby.

_ “Regis, you need to take-”  _

_ “Damn it, no! I’m dealing with Noctis right now.”  _

_ “I’ll deal with Noctis.” _ There’s a sigh, and a rustle of clothing, then the crying recedes.

_ “Clarus, no- oh damn.” _ The second voice sighs. Sospes figures that it’s Regis himself.  _ “I’m still not talking to them, Wesk, forget it.”  _

_ “No,” _ The first person - Wesk - says, like he’s dealing with a stubborn child.  _ “Take it.” _

_ “No. I don’t care who it is, no.”  _

There’s a scuffling sound, then the voice quality changes drastically. 

“We’re on speaker.” Sylva mouths, and there’s humour lighting up her eyes. Sospes grins back. He’s never dealt with the king or his inner circle before, but from what Sylva has told him, this kind of caper isn’t far out of the ordinary, and she  _ totally _ lives for it. 

_ “Yes. I am telling you, yes, Regis!”  _

_ “I don’t even know this number. I’m not talking to some stuck up lord who thinks they can nag me for any old shit just because they found my number.” _

Sospes bites back a smirk - because why ruin Sylva’s fun? - and sees the mirth dancing in her eyes as she also holds back laughter. 

_ “Oh my gods.” _ Wesk says, and he sounds pained.  _ “How long-? Fucking hell. How do you function when I’m not here?” _

He seems so thoroughly resigned to Regis not cooperating that Sospes can’t help but let his shoulders start to shake with laughter. 

_ “That’s rude, but I’m still not talking to some random loser.”  _

“Hello, Regis.” Sylva bursts in, and as soon as they glance at each other they both dissolve into laughter. 

There’s a lot of cursing from the other end of the phone, and some laughter on the other end of the line too. 

_ “Sylva, it’s lovely to hear from you.” _ Regis says, and the sound quality changes back.  _ “How was your journey?”  _

“Oh, so  _ now  _ I’m not some random loser?” Sylva says, but the humour is obvious in her tone, and all Regis does is groan. 

_ “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”  _

“Not as long as I live!” She tells him smugly. Then she schools her features as her gaze returns to the marshal. “But I am ringing about a rather more serious issue than my travels, Regis.” 

_ “Why? Has something happened? Are the havens alright?” _

“Yes, the havens are fine. It’s simply that my husband went on a mission while I was away, and he recovered-”

_ “Oh gods, what has Aldercapt done now?”  _

“Nothing, Regis. Aldercapt hasn’t done anything.” Sylva says placatingly. “Sospes happened upon your-”

_ “Well that’s something at least.” _ The king mutters under his breath, but not so quiet that Sylva doesn’t hear him. 

“Regis!” She scolds, and gets a hurried apology in return. “Sospes found your Marshal Leonis.” 

For a long moment, there’s nothing but a strained silence. 

_ “What?” _ Regis whispers hoarsely.  _ “C- Cor?”  _

“Yes, Regis. He’s alive.” Sylva explains gently, glancing back at the prone form on the hospital bed. “Not exactly well, or in one piece, but he’s alive.” 

There’s a sharp inhale, and Sylva smiles sadly. 

“I’ll call back when you’ve had some time to digest the news and we’ll make some travel arrangements, okay?” 

_ “Sure,” _ Regis replies shakily, and then the call cuts off. 

Sylva lets out a small sigh and puts her phone away. 

“That’s the hard part done, at least.” She says, making her way over to Leonis’ side. She picks up one of his hands and gently pats the top of it. “Now, let’s see what kind of shape you’re in and get thinking of ways to get you home, shall we?” 

* * *

Regis doesn’t know what to do. 

He can feel tears building in his eyes, and he’s vaguely aware that Wesk and Cid are trying to get his attention, but it all feels so far away. 

Cor’s alive. 

He’s  _ alive _ .

It’s… 

Probably some kind of miracle. 

He doesn’t know whether to give into his tears or laugh hysterically, and distantly he knows there’s shame building somewhere as well. 

How could he have abandoned Cor like that? 

The tears win.

He pitches himself forwards from his seat and clutches blindly at Wesk and Cid, and sobs. He can hear their panicked responses, but his throat is too tight to try and explain to them right now. 

Cor is alive. 

Oh gods, but how long has it been now? A week since his funeral? And they took two weeks planning it, so he’s spent three weeks -  _ at least _ \- in the hands of the enemy, and Regis had spent that time feeling sorry for himself instead of helping his little brother,  _ again! _

“Reggie, what the hell’s gotten into you?” Cid asks, grabbing his arm to steady him. “What the hell did she have to say that caused this?!” 

Regis takes a shaky breath and looks between his friends’ concerned faces, and tries to find the words to explain. 

“He- He’s alive.” He eventually manages. “Cor. He’s alive. He’s in Tenebrae.” 

“What.” Cid growls, tightening his hold on Regis’ arm. “That ain’t damn funny.” 

“I’m not joking!” Regis retorts, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “Sylva’s husband found him. He’s in Tenebrae right now!” 

Wesk’s face twists into an unreadable expression, and he doesn’t say anything. Regis glances between him and Cid, and suddenly gets the impression that they’re not going through the same awful, heady rush of emotions as him. 

“Reggie I already buried one kid for good, don’t you dare dick me around with this!” Cid yells, hands curled into fists. 

Seeing tears in Cid’s eyes, Regis takes a deep, steadying breath. He closes his eyes momentarily, and when he opens them, Cid has moved away from him, shoulders hunched defensively. 

“Cid.” He says softly, and goes and puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I would not lie about something like this. I believe Sylva. I trust her.”

Cid turns into his hold, and Regis hugs him tightly. He can only imagine how devastated Cid must be feeling, having lost Cor in the wake of the loss of his biological son, Mid, to find out there’s a possibility Cor is still alive. 

“What did she say?” Wesk asks quietly, his stare distant. 

“Not much.” Regis replies, arms still wrapped around Cid’s frame. He pointedly ignores the shaking sobs, and the hot tears he can feel splashing down onto his suit. “She said that he’s badly injured, and to call her back when we’re ready to discuss travel arrangements.” 

Wesk nods, worrying at his lip. “I’ll do that then. And tell Clarus.” 

Regis sends him a grateful smile as he makes his way to the door, then lets himself cry a little along with Cid, because the relief is just so overwhelming.

* * *

The migraine-inducing, logistical nightmare that is organising Cor’s travel home, by some miracle, goes completely to plan. Regis thanks the gods for that at least, as he finally gets to take in, first hand, Cor’s state. 

It’s not good. 

He’s no doctor, but he knows that much. His little brother lies still and prone, his skin littered with yellowing bruises and it’s just- 

He sort of doesn’t look like Cor.

Regis has never seen Cor be so still, and it just feels fundamentally  _ wrong  _ to see him like this. 

Guilt churns uneasily in his chest, strong and turbulent and unforgettable, every time he sets foot in Cor’s hospital room. He spends hours sitting by his bedside, wrapped in an unbreakable silence, and thanks the gods for every breath he sees Cor take. He came off a ventilator yesterday, but so far, against all odds, he’s holding his own. Regis smiles tenderly, holding one of Cor’s hands gently between his own. 

Cor is nothing if not a fighter. 

But still he can’t shake the dark thoughts circling at the back of his mind. It’s still his fault. 

He’d vomited, when he read Cor’s medical notes. The pain he’d endured in the hands of the empire... 

They’re still not sure if his leg will be salvageable. 

Only time will tell, really, and Cor’s input when he wakes up. Although, Regis hopes he’ll stay blissfully out of it for a while longer yet while his body heals from the trauma of captivity. So Regis sits, day after day, next to him, holding his hand and trying to figure out just what the hell he’s going to say when Cor does wake up. He  _ needs  _ to apologise. It burns in his chest, weighing heavily on his mind and making him distracted from his work. 

There’s so much he has to say, _needs_ to say, and he’s not sure if Cor will want to hear any of it. Regis sure as hell won’t be surprised if Cor decided to up and leave without ever speaking to him again. He wouldn’t blame him, either. Since Aulea’s death, he’s been a complete asshole. 

He’s cried an awful lot, the past few days, the only thing keeping him from having an all-out breakdown is the warmth of Cor’s hand - steady, constant,  _ alive  _ \- in his. So when the tears come, he holds most of them back, instead talking to Cor. 

Inane, mindless chatter about the weather, and stupid things the councillors have said recently, anecdotes about Noctis, anything, really. He just hopes Cor knows that he’s not alone, and he’s loved. 

Cid, Clarus and Wesk are with him most days, though they all step out from time to time, to deal with their children, or in Wesk’s case, to forcibly keep the council off Regis’ back. It hits Regis, suddenly, that Cor is the glue of their friendship. 

Wesk would not have made the perilous journey from Altissia to here if it weren’t for Cor, and Cid wouldn’t have gone back on his word and returned, especially not after Mid’s death. They still don’t know about his and Cor’s argument, and honestly Regis wants it to stay that way. 

He should never have said what he did, he knows that now. He can only hope that Cor can forgive him. 

Two weeks pass before Cor wakes. 

It’s just a small twitch of fingers, but Regis feels it, so they’re all there when Cor blinks heavily, a pained groan escaping him. He sounds dreadful, and Regis can only imagine how he must be feeling. 

“Cor?” He asks, squeezing his brother’s hand in encouragement. “Can you hear me, Cor?” 

Cor mumbles incoherently, eyes like slits. 

“C’mon, kid. Wakey wakey.” Cid says gruffly from the other side of Cor’s bed. 

“‘Stoobright.” Cor slurs, his eyes already slipping shut again. 

Wesk rushes over to the window and draws the blinds down, plunging the room into shade. 

“Try again, Cor. It’s darker now.”  Regis says, lifting one hand up to brush Cor’s hair out of his face. It’s grown out of the cropped style Cor keeps it in, and the soft bangs make Cor look softer, and younger. More vulnerable. 

With a moan, Cor’s eyes flutter open, and he stares blearily at them for a long moment. 

“Regis?” He murmurs, his head lolling to one side slowly. 

“Hey,” Regis smiles down at him, and gently cards his fingers through Cor’s hair. He can see the exact second that Cor catches sight of Clarus next to him, a small furrow appearing in his brow as he tries to lift his head. 

“Hey, now. None o’ that, kid. You jus’ get some rest, y’hear?” Cid says, planting one hand firmly on Cor’s shoulder to stop him trying to sit up. 

Cor makes a noise of recognition and, ever so slowly, turns his head the other way. He looks faintly surprised, and Cid huffs slightly, but he’s grinning. 

“What? Did ya think jus’ cos yer all grown up now I wouldn’t be here to give you a hidin’ for being reckless?” He asks, his harshness belied by the hesitant way he rests a hand on Cor’s shoulder. 

“Not my fault.” Cor rasps out, letting his eyes slide closed again. He mutters something else, but Regis can’t figure out what it is, and a glance at his friends’ faces tell him they’re equally clueless. 

Internally, Regis cringes. It looks like forgiveness will not be easily earned. 

“It never is, is it, kid?” Cid sighs, looking down at Cor with a fond, if exasperated, smile. 

Even mostly asleep, Cor has the gall to look affronted. “Not my fault the stupid overgrown bunny was feeling suicidal.” 

Which… what?! 

But before any of them can respond out loud, Cor has relaxed again, drifting into sleep easily. 

“Did he just say..?” Clarus asks, looking as bewildered as Regis felt. 

“I ain’t entirely sure I even  _ want  _ to know.” Cid says, chuckling lightly. 

Regis huffs a laugh, watching his brother sleep. Whatever part a rabbit had played in Cor’s story, he’s just glad that his little brother is on the mend. 


End file.
